I rarely sleep through the night. I wake up every few hours and despite my mother living just two blocks away, she’s hardly willing to run over and lull me back to sleep. (She’ll say she is.)
This insomnia of sorts has been weaving its way in gently and gingerly over the past long while. So stealthily in fact, that when a friend asked me if I ever have trouble sleeping, my answer was this; “Oh definitely not! I sleep like a…Oh wait – yes actually, come to think of it, I do have trouble sleeping nowadays.”
Why I wake is hard to say. Too hot? Too cold? A pea under the mattress? Thirsty? Perhaps I’m an unknowing fan of unyielding yawns and lead-laden lids? Or maybe it’s simply the obvious – that cover-stealing, log-sawing, sheet-thrashing fellow sleeping next to me. Nah, that couldn’t be it. A merciful muddlement to those exacerbating eccentrics was gratefully gifted upon me years ago.
Enter, stage left. We’ve face-lifted a dining room, overhauled a bathroom, and are currently primping a parlor. (Okay, I don’t often use the word parlor, but I’ve already said room twice, so to divert the dreary, in this instance it shall be a parlor.)
And all that is very exciting indeed. I love change. I am forever painting a room, swapping the drapes or rearranging furniture on a continuous quest for fresh and foreign.
Change means more than glossy paint and a snazzy new rug. Change is bringing growth and ungrasping, independence and fear, wings and unwrapping, freedom and tears.
And, it’s freaky.