insomnia

Just a quiet Sunday post about Edgar, the Cat of Insomnia.

I know there are many fellow insomniacs out there, and some aren’t lucky enough to have such a fine sleeplessness companion. This is why I thought I’d share Edgar’s COI technique and, in so doing, offer some vicarious benefits.

After lying awake for hours … tossing, turning, examining each individual worry in my mind like a precious stone, viewing it from every angle so it can catch the light of generalized anxiety and generally creating my own breathtaking, heart thumping prism of consternation … well, then I usually just give up and get out of bed.

While this marks another defeat in the “sleep hygiene” wars, there is consolation in knowing that the Maître d’Insomie awaits.

While Edgar is pretty quiet during the daytime, he comes into his own in the wee hours. As soon as any sleepless human staggers into the living room he starts purring and begins his important work.

Reading or knitting is discouraged by the COI (via gentle paw taps) as such things distract from full appreciation of the artistry at work here.

The best way to enjoy the service is to just sit there and breathe in and out (in and out, in and out …) with the purring.

Become one with the cat, as it were.

The slight downside is that, as you can well imagine, it’s hard to disturb the artiste when he’s in the creative flow, so I often end up staying up an hour or more longer that truly necessary.

I like to think that sitting with Edgar like this is almost as restful as actually being asleep as the various worries dull their sharp edges and fade into relative obscurity.

zzzzzzz …….

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Insomnia can be a drag. I don’t think I’ve actually had a really solid night’s sleep since my first child was born almost 26 years ago. First of all it’s the usual – feeding, teething, nightmares. Then it becomes a habit to wake up every few hours. After that, the teenage years come to keep you (well, me) wide awake and staring into the dark for hours at a time. Then, suddenly, you’re an old lady and everybody knows that old ladies sleep very lightly.

But, as with all problems, there are sometimes perks. I no longer lie in bed staring at the ceiling. I get up and explore. Those very early mornings have become a special time for me. It’s as if I’ve made a heist from the time bank and I have an hour or so to fritter away.

First of all, a cup of tea must be made.

The essential early morning companion.

After that, what to do? Sometimes I just wander around the house admiring the sheer artistry of the mess a family can create. Strewn clothing, the table buried in a pile of newspapers, magazines and neglected paperwork. Somehow at that time in the morning it doesn’t seem right to worry about tidying, so I can just appreciate the story of how everything got where it came to rest. I am always somewhat comforted by a quote from a Globe and Mail columnist I read years ago that said something about the homes of the most interesting people “showing signs of recent struggle”. I often think that (a) we must be really fascinating and (b) our housekeeping style has the added bonus of being a burglary deterrent. “Hmm, this place has already been ransacked — let’s move on.”

Our house is pretty chilly in the early hours, before the furnace comes on, so in winter I start the day in woollen slippers and a double layer of dressing gowns — one flannel, one fleece. This is a handy because I can slip out of the house, onto the roof deck, or into the garden, without immediately freezing to death.

Frost on the coral bark maple.

Sometimes I even venture out of the garden in my multi-layered dressing gown attire. Luckily we have understanding neighbours.

Everything at that special hour seems somehow very particular. In that little bubble of time I like to watch the birds arriving and see how they start their feathered days.

A pine siskin takes a moment in the ice fog for a little personal grooming.

Two Robins, One Starling

I like to look up at my particular little patch of hydro wire criss-crossed sky and see it changing. Every dawn is like the turning of a mini-season.

Crows enjoying the moonset as the sun rises.

Crows enjoying a rosy dawn.

Always, when I look to the east, I see the crows returning in small groups from the roost at Still Creek. They settle on the wires and enjoy the view for a while, do a little grooming, have a bite to eat — and then we all go on about our respective busy days.