fixing on rest

God DAMN Monday morning came way too fucking soon.

Sometimes it feels like my entire life’s goal boils down to getting more sleep.  Why this simple practice should remain so consistently elusive makes perfect - and yet at the same time no - sense.  I haven’t managed a rhythm of good sleep habits since before I met my ex.

Those two years prior to meeting my ex stand out as the most stable stretch of time I’ve ever enjoyed (up to now).  I lived in The Eyrie, the top flat of an early twentieth century duplex that I adored (god that place was spacious and bright and perfect); I worked out every morning while listening to segments of The Skeptic’s Guide to the Universe; I played piano almost daily; I managed my money carefully; I ate well; I went to bed at 9:30 p.m.  I wouldn’t call that phase of my life perfect - my job bored me and I lived reclusively and therefore often felt lonely - but I liked the simplicity, the dependability, the quiet.  In that microcosm on the corner of 24th and Raspberry, I cultivated something good.

What I have, what I’m building now, is better.  My first career is well underway.  Although my internal state has not quite reached the even keel I remember from back then, the foundation of confident self-possession I’m building on runs much deeper, and promises a rich fullness I couldn’t have dreamed of in Erie.  I’m writing. I feel happy again.  I have all the pieces for the most amazing life I could ever want, all spread out in front of me, shiny and beautiful.  I just have to put them all together into a coherent picture, and some of those marker pieces - regular disciplines to maintain an optimal state of wellbeing (exercise, budgeting, music practice, diet) - I’m not quite ready to arrange yet. 

It’s coming, though.  And it starts with better sleep habits.  I think once I’m rested I will be able to conquer worlds.  I’ve managed some pretty impressive accomplishments on sheer grit and stubbornness; I can’t wait to see what I can do when I can rely upon a regularly replenished brain and body. 

And while I look back on my former life in Erie with fondness - and nostalgia for the comfortable regularity - I don’t want that life back.  The peace I achieved then was hollow, a convalescent’s absence of illness rather than a robust expression of health: a necessary phase, but an inadequate end.  What I’m undertaking to build now is immeasurably better, worth building slowly and carefully, with forethought and consideration.

And if confidence and self-possession are the foundation, sleep is the frame.  So for the remainder of February and the entirety of March, I plan to hone my gimlet eye on the goal of establishing a healthy resting life.  Good sleep hygiene, better and more sleep, a regular schedule. I want to rise every morning eager and ready to take on the day. I have shit to do, and I want to amass the reserves I’ll need to do it well.

Ready, set, snore.