In the wee hours
I was listening to the house sleep this morning. Well, you can’t really call it morning. It was midnight, but the house was so quiet. I almost walked in to peek at the kids sleeping, but I was afraid my presence might wake them like theirs wakes me sometimes. I kept listening for the wind that I thought was supposed to kick up tonight, but I didn’t hear anything. Just still. Still. Still.
It’s those moments in the middle of the night when our minds wander, if we don’t numb ourselves with reruns of Oprah or The Office. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.) But last night I tried to just sit with it, and let my mind think its thoughts undistracted. Are you a good mother? Will your children be alright? Will you get your book finished on time? What does your life mean? Are you as ridiculous as you feel?
Sometimes I wish I had someone to talk to in those wee hours, and then I remember – uh – I’m here. I know I’m not the best friend. Just ask my friends. I’m undependable and selfish and too much of a workaholic to be of any good to anyone. But last night, I tried to be a friend to myself.
I listened while I rambled. I sat with me. I just waited. I wasn’t in a hurry. I didn’t have to get in the shower until . . . 2:30 . . . later if I didn’t do my hair. What’s on your mind?
I guess it was just one of those rare, peace-filled moments when I got it – it’s not about whether you’re loved in return – its about whether you love. That’s it. The only thing that matters – to me – is whether I give all the love I have so that when it’s over, I’m dry. Completely spent. If I do that, all is well, and I leave the rest for someone else to figure out.