"Finish each day
before you begin the next, and interpose a solid wall of sleep between
the two. This you cannot do without temperance."  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have always been a good sleeper. I can usually settle right down between the covers and begin a gentle breathing that takes me into the Land of Nod. But lately I have been having wakeful middle of night bouts with thoughts left unfinished, words spoken too quickly, work that hangs in a suspended bubble above what should be my restful body. Everyone has these times. Or at least I find comfort in the thought that this is not a 'gift' being given to only me.

Last night was such a night. At 4:00 a.m. I woke and felt wide awake. At first I tried to make myself lay there and go back into some form of sleep. But after only a few minutes I asked myself why I was doing this. The anxiety that probably woke me only compounded and created an anxiety about not being able to sleep.

So instead I got up and came downstairs and spent a considerable time looking at the glorious, bright moon shining on our street. How peaceful our neighborhood looked bathed in such light! I felt blessed to be present to it. Then I sat down and wrote some notes I had been meaning to write. With the quiet of the house surrounding me, I found the words came easily. I was able to give the time and attention to these letters that I would not have found in the middle of the day. I labored over the right words to express my pride, my gratitude and my enthusiasm. Again, this all felt like a gift of time.

Sleep is important. With recent research we know this to be true. People who sleep well have healthier hearts, lower blood pressure,longer lives. But every once in a while it is good to be awake when the world is sleeping. You get a different perspective. Your house seems cozier. Your neighborhood can look like a Norman Rockwell painting. Those who have had children are reminded of the middle of night feedings that brought such quiet, nurturing moments of bliss.

Sometime this afternoon I may not feel the same about this experience of waking so early. But for now I plan to walk out my door as if I have one up on the rest of those who slept a full eight hours. I plan to carry the light of the moon that shone on my nocturnal wanderings with me as I do the mundane things this day will hold. I will try to carry the glow that fell on our ordinary street and all the ordinary houses. I will cherish the words given to me in the dark of night, glad that I have passed them on through the inspiration of midnight oil.

And hopefully tonight I will rest like a baby……unless the moon wakes me once again for more quiet work.

"The
act of putting pen to paper encourages pause for thought, this in turn
makes us think more deeply about life, which helps us regain our
equilibrium."

  ~Norbet Platt

I was in an amazing old Seattle bookstore last week. For a book lover it is nearly heaven. Books line the old brick walls from floor to ceiling. The weathered wooden floors show the path of all the bibliophiles that have come this way before. Tall wooden ladders can be moved on wheels to fetch that out of reach volume. While it is indeed a store, it has the feeling of an old fashioned library, before they became media centers filled with computer labs, back when the Dewey Decimal system still ruled. It was a store that was filled with mostly silence, reverence.

Keeping the silence was what two young girls were doing when I walked in. They were scurrying about, whispering to one another with the excitement you might find at a Hannah Montana concert. But these two preteens were in search of journals. I was standing by the shelves of these sought after blank books when they squeezed in front of me. They picked up each beautiful book with the expectation that 'this might be the one'. They put others back with a sure rejection. They whispered some more. Each had a crisp bill held in their delicate little hand. $20.00.

They opened the journals and saw the price. Their eyes flashed disappointment. "They are handmade" I explained."That is why they are so expensive." The girls turned and went in search of a clerk who led them to another bookcase of journals. These were more conservative, business-like. They picked them up and rejected the brown, black and even red utilitarian books. These clearly would not do to hold whatever stories needed to be written, whatever important observations needed to be recorded. They quickly headed downstairs to where a book reading was taking place.

Some minutes later as I made my way back to the same shelf filled with the multi-colored, unique journals the girls returned. In silence they chose the 'perfect' journal for their reflections on their sweet, young lives. I noticed they had more money clenched in their fists this time. They marched to the clerk and put the books that will hold their dreams, their observations, their deepest hopes and their most silly wishes on the counter. I was so pleased that the young,hip clerk treated them and their purchases with the grace and reverence he would any author. With journals in hand, they looked at one another with glee. "Now we begin." I could almost hear them say. My heart was filled with such joy watching those two young ones. Thank heaven for the adults who gave them the resources needed for their quest.

What will those pages hold in the journals of these young girls? What stories will they tuck away for a time in the future when they need to remember who they were? What hopes will they record so they can buoy themselves up on dark days? What secrets will be known to only those pages put together lovingly by an artist who understands the power and promise of a book of blank pages?

I can't answer those questions except in my imagination. But, inspired by their enthusiasm, I placed a my own journal whose cover was handmade paper, deep greens and rich blues with fanciful leaf prints on the counter. I plopped down my money and walked out with a new blank book waiting to be filled with my own stories, dreams, secrets. As I write in it, I plan to remember these two who filled me with such joy, such anticipation, such desire of the words that will find a home there.

"We must be aware of the real problems of the world. Then, with mindfulness, we will know what to do and what not to do to be of help."
~Thich Nhat Hanh

The sun is shining beautifully today. With the change in daylight saving time, it now seems brighter than it should be on a November day. Of course, at supper time, it will be dark and we will become aware of winter's slow creep up on us. For the moment,however, I am enjoying the light reflecting off the now bare branches of the large oak tree outside my office window. I will now begin my watch over its starkness, through the flurry of snow yet to come, and on until the ripe buds break open once again in the spring.

I ran across this saying of Thich Nhat Hanh, the Buddhist priest who always seems to stop me in my tracks with his wisdom, his way of molding words. I have a friend who, when asked the proverbial "How are you?", always replies:"In all the ways that really matter, I am just fine." I believe when he says this he is thinking of 'what the real problems of the world' are. I believe he is also affirming his life of considerable comfort and privilege. In comparison to the real problems of the world….poverty, war, homelessness, grave illness…..all is well in his life.

I am thinking of how often we approach problem situations with the tenacity of a surgeon. Instead of taking the time to discern what our role is, we jump right in, at the ready like a cape-wearing superhero. Sometimes this swooping in works out well but often it can only make matters worse. My friends in recovery know the beauty of 'the wisdom to know the difference' in any step they take. I think this is wisdom for the real problems and the smaller ones as well.

All that wisdom begins with mindfulness…which begins with slowing down,even stopping….which leads to deep breathing…which often results in clearer thoughts…which can sometimes bring a crystal,clear vision of how the whole picture fits together. And every good solution to any problem,real or small, must begin with such a vision. Don't you agree?

The dead, dry leaves on the oak are fluttering in the November breeze. Under the ground its roots are doing the only work they know how to do. It has stood in this place for many decades in its own mindful way. Perhaps today, it is my teacher.