On a good day, I call it the 5 a.m. Idea Factory; on a bad day, it’s the “pre-dawn stew.” I have also dubbed it “Restless Brain Syndrome,” which became the title of one of the most frequently browsed posts on this humble blog. Guess I’m not alone here on the insomnia journey.
But lately, I’ve been leaning positive. I’m trying to embrace my version of insomnia rather than fight it. Hence, the 5 a.m. Idea Factory. (Sometimes, it’s 3 or 4 a.m. Which is a little harder to embrace. But let’s not dwell on that.)
First: hats off to those of you who get up every day at five, either because you have to or because you want to. Seriously. I have spent a lot of time asking myself why, since I so often wake up at five, I so adamantly do not want to get up at five. In these self-to-self conversations, I have tried to employ logic (you’re awake! It makes sense!), ambition (think of all the writing you could get done!), selfishness (do it for you. Give yourself that time!) and selflessness (think how much better your husband will sleep if you get your restless self out of bed!) But no: my 5 a.m. brain may be on high alert, but my 5 a.m. body refuses all orders to throw back the covers and face the world.
One day, I listened as a woman a few decades older than I am described how she loves lingering in that time between sleep and waking, when she can just let her mind roam, sometimes dreamily, sometimes with purpose. A light bulb went off: was she saying that the pre-dawn tossing hours could be viewed as good? As something other than the maddening reason I can never stay awake through a movie that begins after 9 p.m.?
It’s not like my attitude changed overnight. I still get that sinking feeling when I look at the clock and it says four something. But here is what I have found: if I try to relax into my early morning wakefulness, if I allow my body to burrow under the covers while my mind roams, by the time I DO get up at, say, six, I might have a few new insights or ideas or—this is really the best part—a more profound appreciation of whatever came my way the day before.
For example: one recent night I went to see the Pacific Northwest Ballet’s “Director’s Choice” program of contemporary choreography. As I woke the next morning, my mind began to replay fragments of what I’d seen on stage the night before: the patterns and movements, the soaring, arching, folding bodies of dancers at the height of their physical powers, expressing every human emotion in ways that words can never match. I was so happy, in the early-morning dark, to be there again, with them.
Then I remembered the title of one of the pieces: “A Million Kisses to my Skin,” which choreographer David Dawson described in the program notes as his attempt to evoke the feeling of complete bliss dancers sometimes experience in their work. And I thought of something else Dawson said: that he has come to view his career as a dancer as a period of training for what he does now as a choreographer.
Lying in bed, I thought: maybe choreography is not so different from writing. It’s a different language, yes. But perhaps choreographers stir to wakefulness, like I do, letting dreams and life play together in search of meaning or joy or pleasant patterns. They probably slept better when they were young and still dancing several hours a day, just as I used to sleep deeply, wake to an alarm, and race off to my job as a news writer. I do miss the sound sleep. But the five a.m. idea factory has its joys.
Radio lovers: you can hear the Restless Nest commentaries every Tuesday at 7:45 a.m. on KBCS, streaming online at kbcs.fm and on the air at 91.3 in the Seattle area. Podcasts available too.