By Lisa Huddleston
As frequently happens when one becomes of a certain age, I awoke at precisely 2:13 a.m. to find my mind at work and my body unable to rest. I tried meditational breathing, prayer, anchoring thoughts, but all to no avail. And then, as so often is the case, my mind began to write. Here are my offerings to La Muse Insomniaque:
Is it possible to unweave this tight cocoon I have so protectively wrapped around myself,
To unspin the trap I have spun,
To carefully tease and pull apart each tensile strand of mirage,
To untangle who I am from whom I have pretended to be,
To awkwardly stretch cramped and aching wings,
To finally inhabit the spacious place into which I have been placed;
Is it possible to undo me?
And thinking she was finished with her assault, I closed my eyes to rest. But I still could not sleep, and soon discovered she had more to say on the subject (with humble apologies to Oliver Wendell Holmes and E.M. Forster):
From womb to tomb
The raw fear of hope
Wraps me into smaller, tighter spaces
But my soul and I need more stately mansions in which to dwell
Higher ceilings against which to butt our hard heads
Finally to break through
To a room with a view and
The space in which to stretch our wings
Finally, I slept. And, yes, I will need a nap.