I lie in bed, feeling the warm, furry texture of the pillowcase that my sister made for me, skin against the cool sheets, the weight of my apparent body against the narrow, unfamiliar mattress.
The mind notices that the body is not falling asleep, and delighted, delves into the world of words. What new prompt feels alive for tomorrow’s non-dual blog reminder? How can that last paragraph of today’s post be reframed so that it is more spare, and shines more brightly?
Catching on to the mind’s busyness–and preferring to be fresh for the morning retreat meeting–I return to noticing the body lying in bed, the quiet breath in, out, in, out. I recall Rupert’s image today of the world folding up on the inbreath, and breathing the world into being on the outbreath.
Then the mind-train revs and huffs, ready to leave the station again, this time pondering the state of my son’s physical heart, and his scheduled appointment Tuesday with new specialists in adult congenital cardiology. Gratefulness rises for his friend Michael, who offered to drive him the 120 miles each way to and fro Portland, Oregon. But that appointment is not occurring now, and projecting unknown outcomes is a prescription for suffering I am well familiar with and uninterested in pursuing. I bring the mind back to the current tingling in the body, the rumble of the city, the cool breeze pouring in the window.
Editing arises again, hunting for the finer, subtler expression. Playing with words as I lie in bed does not invite nighttime suffering, and it is a form of inquiry that I’m passionate about.
Now, two hours later, and noticing mild resistance to wakefulness, I get up and toddle down the hallway with my netbook to the wireless room to record the prompts and edits, and unexpectedly, this post unfolds.
Eventually, the body will take me back to bed for the strange sleep I’ve been experiencing for a while–the paradox that something is awake even while the body is resting.
© Amrita Skye Blaine, 2013