It's almost one in the morning and I'm watching my husband sleep. His breathing is slow and measured, and his eyelids flutter gently, indicating he is deep in dreams. A smile crosses his handsome face. He murmurs something, chuckles, and rolls over. I sit up taller, trying to eavesdrop on his dreams, wondering who is making him smile. He calls my name and I give him a satisfied nod, then plod off to the computer to do anything but sleep.
I'm in too much pain to sleep. Somehow I hurt my back. It could be that I was working out without stretching first (bad bad!) or that I was lugging around a pack of books and a computer which probably weighed more than I do (at least before they offered me the free pastry at Panera) or that I sat cross-legged at my computer for three hours without taking a break, or finally, that I was rearranging the garage to get ready for our weekend yard sale. At any rate, my back protesteth and I am screwed.
In the first few months of the New Year I had planned to be more Zen (see first post), or at least to slow down. Six months later I can report that my Zen Experiment was an epic failure. Although I'm happy to be living my energetic life, lying here in pain tonight makes me realize Zen and I are still worlds apart. I'm still doing, running, and moving. And I'm still worrying incessantly, counting down time like its the last piece of pizza at a Jenny Craig reunion. But sitting here tonight, hoping this pain goes away before I chew through my own leg, I realize I have to recommit. If I don't I may end up killing myself before I ever see those goals I work so hard on.
If I'm not making any sense blame it on whatever it was I took in the dark to get rid of my malady, probably something left over from my husband's root canal. The bad news is that my back still hurts. The good news is that I can't feel my teeth.
I hear a noise from the bed. My husband murmurs again, snapping me back to the present. I smile. For just a moment I'm zen.
"Honey," he says when he notices I'm not lying beside him, "get back in bed. I miss you."
I miss him too. If I can't sleep maybe I will just be there with him, listening to him breathe, content that he at least is having good dreams tonight. The medicine is kicking in...and I'm starting to have good dreams too. Too bad I'm still awake.