Sleep, with all its remarkable restorative powers – to renew, to recharge, to dream. Then we wake refreshed, and begin a new day.
No. There are no restorative powers of sleep for me, only restless legs, flailing about, waking repeatedly, disturbing dreams. The morning. Too soon.
A knock on my door. It is not yet dawn. “Yes, who is it?” I say. I sit up in bed. But there was no knock, and the alarm won’t buzz for more than an hour as I’ve been yanked from a place that is warm, though sorrowful. There was a child in my arms and now the child is gone. So I begin what is a mechanical routine: I shuffle to the kitchen, wash my hands, spoon coffee into the filter, add water from the tap, flick the switch.
Morning, and interrupted sleep
Morning arrives unrelenting, as it has since the years of babies waking and needing to be fed. My babies are young men now, yet the insomnia persists in cycles. I’ve grown accustomed to its rhythms; I work around them.
I watch the coffee as it drips, realizing how chilly it is. I return to the bedroom and I try to find a way back to my dreaming. I am always looking for a way back to something, to see more closely.
Restless sleep, restless legs, active dreaming
Sleep is the unreliable lover. The oldest burden, since childhood, this waking frequently and much too soon. Sometimes I write. Sometimes I pace. Bits of dream may enliven me, so I let them roll around on my tongue and brighten my day in its infancy, even at three in the morning. Darker bits of nightmare are bothersome, like rough morsels of food caught between my teeth. They irritate. They are not nourishing. Then I rush to the bathroom to turn on lights, brush, spit. To rinse away the foulness.
I open my laptop and try to channel these first thoughts waking, to make sense of them, to dance with them, poking, cajoling, now pulling at a fingertip to reveal the hand, coaxing the hand into the light. Next the arm, the shoulder, the torso – so I may have more, know more, surround myself with more images, comforting even in shadow.
The coffee is ready. An old machine can still do its job.
Using dreams to understand ourselves
- What do we whisper to ourselves in sleep that we cannot articulate awake?
- What passages are we invited to enter, however dimly lit?
- Why can’t we hang on to the clarity, take those steps, our eyes newly opened?
In my dreams, there are rarely discernible features, though I know who inhabits each body. I know when I am inside an unfamiliar figure, another mind, another set of limbs, another sex. This is freedom: a kind of soaring while retaining the self, able to light inside an alien skin. In my dreams, only strangers have faces. They own their eyes, they own their noses, they own their lips that part when they utter a sound.
Sometimes, I travel to places I have lived. I travel through time and visit those who are gone. Sometimes I can speak to them as an adult. Sometimes I am still a child and mute, or an adult and mute. Sometimes, I try to claw my way out of the dream knowing that I am not awake, knowing that I have missed an opportunity. To demand respect, or explanations.
I wake at a loss. I wake remembering. But I am writing now. Perhaps this is the dream.
The power of dreams
Do you sleep well? Do you remember your dreams? Are your populations recognizable?
These are questions I’ve been known to ask near-strangers. At times they look at me oddly, but I genuinely want a response. To know a man, I want the retelling of his dreams. I want their imprint in his own words, a suggestion of their mysteries. I need to know if my lover will sleep coolly through my flailing, or lay his quiet hand against my skin, and will himself inside of me.
First dream, first waking
First dream in my first waking: I am clutching a small pillow. Not leaning on it as I usually do, because of my weak arm and shoulder. Clinging to it for dear life, holding it close to me like a child, my child, as though someone is trying to pry him away.
I had fallen asleep dressed, to the noise of the television; as I dragged myself out of the darkness I tell myself “I am in a dream. I am comfortable here. But I cannot straighten my arms or I will drop this tiny pillow. If I drop this pillow, then I can fly.”
Second dream, second waking
Second dream in my second waking: a butterfly, a flicker of lightning. Then nothing. I toss the covers aside, hot. I pull them over me again, cold. My legs bristle. The light is gone.
Third dream, morning rising
Third dream in my morning rising: I am somewhere in the countryside, rural America, as though in a photograph by Walker Evans or Dorothea Lange. I stand on a worn front porch, a house of silvery, splintering clapboard. Everything is black and white and gray. My skin is gray. I have a face that is not my own, hair that is not my own, a furrowed brow, creases along my down-turned mouth.
This is despair, the Great Depression, the time of my mother’s stories. Now I think: You may dismiss me, but at last you will see me, you will listen, you will not be fooled. This is the face of the poor. I know that it frightens you.
I hold a child, leaned on my hip to spare my arms. She is another woman’s child; I have a house full of sons and this is a daughter, a toddler, smiling and dressed in a bright pink pinafore with a little white collar. She has ruddy cheeks and a runny nose. She is the spot of color against the shades of gray, raising a tiny hand as I lift my free arm to wave. “I will take care of her,” I say, to a woman walking away.
Why do we dream?
Are we powerful in our dreams? Or are we powerless to fight them? Is that their magnificence, that we must stay and participate, that we cannot run away without retaining something of their gift?
Outside it is 39 degrees. There will be frost on the windshield, red leaves flaming against a piercing, liquid sky. It is my autumn, and it is daylight.
TheKitchenWitch says
This was beautiful! I am a terrible sleeper. I wake up dozens of times during the night. And I only remember my dreams if they were terrifying… how sad is THAT?
mommasunshine says
I swear I haven’t felt completely rested since having kids. They’re 4 and 6 now, and since they spend plenty of nights with their dad, one would think that I could finally, finally catch up.
Seems like I’m always fighting with the exhaustion monster.
Nicki says
I am with KitchenWitch. I seldom remember my dreams. It is as if I don’t dream at all. When I do remember, they are scenes I wish to not recall at all.
I had a friend tell me I am a light sleeper. I am not. I sleep heavily. I will hold whole conversations as if awake but be sound asleep. I do not, at least I don’t think I do, move much in bed at night.
I feel for those who wake nightly and more than once a night. I may wake but generally, unless it is close to when I went to sleep, will not go back to sleep. I will get up and get on with my life, my body having told me I have had enough rest.
Mindy/Single Mom Says... says
As you know I am struggling with a bout of insomnia lately. I’ve always been a light and restless sleeper but the waves of extreme insomnia come in phases. Now is not a good one. Zzzzzzzzzzz…
Daily Connoisseur says
I’ve always enjoyed vivid dreams that play out like movies in my mind and are generally unforgettable for a few days… I look forward to them every night!
jason says
my sleep has changed so much for the worse the last 2 years going through separation and divorce.
it is better now than it was, but not as restorative as it used to be, now it is more like refuge. often in the morning i wake up too early but don’t want to get out of bed to start the day and the routines.
i infrequently remember dreams, i think it is often because my sleep just gets interrupted in the early morning before i should be waking up. also i too infrequently go to bed late (work work work) and then just sleep for rest, not restoration.
i hate getting out of bed when i wake up too early, i think i make things worse by not getting out of bed 🙂 but i am also NOT a morning person.
Aidan Donnelley Rowley @ Ivy League Insecurities says
I love this post because I love dreams. Literal and metaphorical. Writing was a imprudent dream and here I am, here we are, living that dream. My novel begins with a dream. I have crazy dreams. I cling to their remnants. I had a haunting dream just this week and I have wanted to write about it but I worry (don’t we all) about what its shards will reveal. About me. My fears. My flaws. Me.
I also have been thinking a lot about sleep. Part of me wants to train myself to sleep less so that I can do more. Now that I am (finally) doing something I adore, I want to do it and do it and do it.
My favorite part of this lush piece:
“An old machine can still do its job.”
Love this. Love.
dadshouse says
I love dreams. Especially ones with naked women. 🙂 I have no idea what your dreams mean. But I’d love to know!
April says
I just know I always am awakened in the middle of a good dream! And it almost never feels restorative. Okay, I’ll stop whining now.
Ambrosia says
My dreams are very vivid. Most are terrifying, scenes in which my daughter is drowning, lost, or neglected. I know most of my dreams come from my fears of losing my children. I also know they describe my secret thoughts about whether I am a competent enough mother.
“Sometimes, I travel to places I have lived. I travel through time and visit those who are gone. Sometimes I can speak to them as an adult. Sometimes I am still a child and mute, or an adult and mute. Sometimes, I try to claw my way out of the dream knowing that I am not awake, knowing that I have missed an opportunity. To demand respect, or explanations.”
How well you have described my restless dreams. I will wake up sobbing, wondering what is wrong.
Is my sleep restorative? It can be and sometimes is. I go through cycles. Right now? With a newborn? I don’t think so.
Vanna says
I used to keep a dream journal, but not anymore. I have seen people before actually meeting them in college and despite the mysterious and psychic components of my dreams, I conclude that there is nothing supernatural about dreams. Dogs, cats, and other nonhuman animals dream too. Us humans as a species were not aware of that till recently. And, since I’m not totally blind, I cannot answer the general question “do blind people see in their dreams?” Modern technology can answer that for you.