These light, long days fill me up.  Sitting on the porch, mowing, walking—all seem infused with soft, easy pleasure, as the light in the day elongates.  The morning’s soft glow seeping into the day so much earlier, the evenings expanded with darkness deferred, as we flow toward solstice, what a glorious time it is.

Springtime awakens the child in me.

Girl Scout camp probably saved that child.  Summer after summer I lived on the earth, close to the rhythm of the rain tapping on the canvas tent, celebrating the cacophony of bird call, the wet dew soaking my sneakers as I dashed toward the dining hall for breakfast of thick oatmeal and thin, sugary hot chocolate, alive with the thrill of the new day.  For so many reasons the culture of Girl Scout camp rescued me; living within nature, knowing the rhythms of the day intimately in my body, memorizing the twist of each trail, savoring the silky lake water on my young body was the most profound and impactful of gifts.

Springtime reunites me with that child.

Today was crystal blue, cool and warm at the same time, the interplay of sun and wind perfectly choreographed as if for my very own pleasure.  I don’t remember a spring quite this green, quite this alive with lush life. Perhaps I just forget.

Sitting on the porch this stunning evening, however, I felt a tingle of anticipatory anxiety, as I remember, come solstice, the light will begin her journey away from us.  It clutched at my heart, this fear, as if I were a little kid again, doomed to return home from camp, facing school and sidewalks and stuttering and a counselor-free world.         

I respect my own anxiety.

I breathe into my own longing.  

I acknowledge my own fear of loss and change.

I choose to slow down, to savor the beauty around me.

I choose to stand outside and be there for the standing, allowing myself to rejoice in the touch of gentle air on my body.

I choose to relax and move, to rest and play, to look inside as I look out.

I choose to honor the little girl in me who adores the promise of spring and summer’s freedom.

Ahhhh.  All good, right?

Yet if I were coaching this Aruni, Aruni—the–Client, I would say to her, hopefully with light and loving encouragement:

“Well, Aruni, your intentions sound powerful and well-directed.  Great inspiration. Yet, here’s my question–what is it going to look like?  Can you be just a tad more specific? We know that inspiration is not enough to change your brain, your body, and your behavior.  So, what do you think? What practices can you create, to live into these intentions?”

Okay, Coach Aruni, I hear you.  Here is my more grounded plan for savoring the light, for celebrating spring, for living into summer with open-hearted delight, without being dimmed with the fear of its ending.  Here is my plan for being alive like that little girl who woke up in the tent and listened, with awe-filled fascination, to the celebration of life around here:

• I will participate, as I am able, in the sunrise and the sunset of each day.  I will watch and feel, as I can, these profound transitions.
• I will look with open heart for the animals; and when I encounter them, I will greet them with purposeful intent.
• I will relax more into the day, rather than pushing and exercising my way through; permission for age-appropriate rest is granted, as my body redefines moving and playing.
• I will feel my fear of losing the light, acknowledge its presence, and lean back into the celebration of what is.

Dear friends, that’s my plan.  Those are the spacious riverbanks through which I choose to swim these next few months.

What about you?  Do you have any hopes and intentions for yourself as the light intensifies, as the solstice peaks, as the summer prepares to wrap her sweaty arms around us?  What are your bigger picture hopes for yourself and, so importantly, how will you create the circumstances in which those intentions can unfold? Please do keep me posted.  I am Aruni@rnetworx.com.  All voices welcomed, all experiences sacred.

Here’s to the savoring of the light—
     In coming,
     In going,
     In sunrise,
     In sunset.

Here’s to the sanctity of the moment—
     No matter what is happening.

All blessings,
Aruni

Like a tiny and unintentional Jewish curse, my mother spoke these words casually and, as I remember, to somebody else:

“The women in our family don’t sleep well.”

Did this even happen? Memory eludes me. Would my mother say this? She would never, of course, intentionally jinx me. Yet when I think of her relationship to sleep, I can well remember her struggles.

“The women in our family don’t sleep well.”

I have had decades of experience, especially during these last years, of opportunity after opportunity, night after night, of living, outliving, and then falling victim again to this ominous prediction.

Confession: at this present moment, it is now 2:38 a.m., EST.

I’m a faller-right-asleep-er, quickly and mostly effortlessly. And then, come 2:00, and onward, I likely may pop awake. When I say awake, I mean, awake. Awake and ready for the day. Except it’s not daytime quite yet, not for many more hours.

Sometimes the doorway to re-enter sleep emerges; sometimes it eludes.

Sometimes I am willing to practice relaxation.

Sometimes I am not.

Sometimes I fret and worry.

Sometimes I pray.

Anything is possible.

This blog is not about any of the natural sleep supplements with which I am intimate, from ashwagandha to Zyflamend, with visitations to every letter of the alphabet in-between. Nor is it about lifestyle strategies, bedtime rituals, odd orange glasses that block out blue light (fondly called, in our family, Bug Eyes). It is not about an historical analysis of sleep in the pre-Industrial Revolution, when people fully accepted the concepts of a first and second sleep. None of those things. It is about how I practice abiding the freaked-out human in the “AWAKE FOREVER” cartoon above, and, night after night, how I practice loving her back into a resting and relaxing person, no matter the hour, no matter if sleep returns or not.

I practice this transformation with wild and reckless imperfection, some nights/mornings being better than others.

Here are some of the lessons I have learned in the middle of the night and in the bowels of the morning, lessons that keep cycling back into my body and being:

Pretty darn good lessons, right?

The bottom line: by making myself wrong, by making the awake-ness wrong, by trying to change it, the time becomes so much harder. Just like on the damn yoga mat, by relaxing into what is, everything softens and becomes possible. Resting and relaxing, breathing and praying are fine ways to pass a few awake hours. It surely beats worrying and freaking out. As I push against sleeplessness, creating friction with the moment, I am digging a deeper hole of suffering.

Have we heard this lesson before, like ten trillion times, in other arenas of life?

I’m here to bless my sleeplessness, as I am here to bless yours.

I’m here to honor my fear of being tired, and to you I extend that possibility.

I’m here to celebrate the Funky–Futuronsky-Women-Curse-of-Disordered-Sleep.

I’m here to continue to practice allowing myself to be exactly where I am.

And from this place of self, may we continue to find the willingness to do the next, best thing, to lean toward a behavior, a strategy, and action that will bring balance. And when we are not willing, may we relax right there, with that, even with that.

Even and especially with that.

From 3:43 a.m., I say, goodnight.

May your evenings be filled with rest and sleep; may your dreams be of ease, love, and grace, no matter what is happening.

Dear Readers, I often think we should hold an insomniac webinar in these be-witching hours! Please send on your stories and strategies of sleep, sleep struggles and sleep victories. I would love to hear from you. You can find me at aruni@rnetworx.com.

All blessings!
Aruni