I dare say bouts of insomnia don’t lend themselves to early morning yoga practices. Not. In. The. Least.
I made an effort at sleep for a good three hours. Even moved to the “fainting” couch downstairs to get some space and catch a cool breeze, away from the overheated bedroom and the equally warm (and sometimes snoring) body next to my restless one.
It’s not the moon tonight. I often lay my blame upon it in all of its fullness and radiant glory (something about gravity, tides, and the like), but tonight it’s just me or, in all fairness, perhaps the 1lb burrito I ingested at one point this evening. I can’t be sure. What I am sure of is that my mind is racing, but the thoughts are so fast and abundant that I can’t really keep track of them. It’s like I’m thinking of everything and nothing all at once. My brain is aflutter with absence.
What does one think about in the wee hours of the night, when the body is in a state of utter exhaustion and yet the mind wanders on, in a sleep walk of sorts, restless and agitated, yet hardly conscious? There is nothing intentional or productive going on here.
I am moving soon. In a short seven weeks. I will pack up the car, yet again, and toss in a cat, a dog, and a girlfriend and head west. Move swiftly and steadily toward my (our) next great adventure.
Twenty twelve, you had me at Hello.
Twenty eleven, thanks for the ride.
I find that when I can’t sleep, my mind often returns to the farm. There, in a series of memories, I meet my farm pup, I dig in the dirt, the wind blows in my hair, and I turn my face toward the sun. I don’t have to wear suncreen, luckily, this is a waking dream. A barely awake dream. It is, whatever you want to call it.
Back to the dream.
I return to the farm because a piece of me remains there. It is lost in the now dormant field, somewhere next to missing sunglasses and other relics of the season. I find myself here a lot lately. Perhaps it’s that habit we all have of looking to see what’s behind us before we move forward. Wait- do we do that? Maybe not. At any rate, I’m doing it. It’s the new thing. It is SO 2012.
I’m looking backward and remembering time and the space and how they both went on forever. What felt like, endless hours of wandering forests, pondering, and imagining. How wonderfully selfish it was. Six months of navel gazing is surely bad for the neck, but I tell myself it’s good for the soul (decent, at best, for the complexion). I talk to people about my experiences there, growing food, working hard, learning invaluable lessons. And I stop. Talking. Because I’m thinking to myself, after all that work and all that time, what the hell did I learn about farming?
Something, I hope. Enough.
Enough is all I need right now to calm my brain and catch a couple of desperately needed Zs.