I like to sleep. I’ve been known to sleep 12-14 hours straight. Rarely, I will wake up early and decide that I need to get out of bed because whatever thoughts that woke me seem worse when mulling them under the covers.
Last night I went to bed early, feeling a vague sense of disquiet that I thought would be easier for my subconscious sort out. But no. I woke well before my alarm, and tossed and turned, and made up some really depressing narratives about my life, so I got out of bed, fired up the wood stove, and made my coffee. Pulled up the footstool and stared at the flames thinking I would wake up a little more and logic my way through the waves of unfounded anxiousness. It didn’t work.
But it was cozy, and the coffee tasted good. I tried to remain focused on feeling grateful for that. I stumbled through the rest of my day, and here I am again, in front of the wood stove, water, instead of coffee, thinking about going to bed already.