Into the Blue: Hair Ties and Hangers

"You forgot to hit purchase on those hair ties and hangers," the rigid voice reprimands, abruptly waking me from my slumber. 

"And while I have your attention," she continues, "you need to pay your credit card.  And your plants are going to die, you haven't watered them in over a week!"

I swing my legs over the side of my bed, sit upright, and pause, looking out to the moonlight,

"Stop it," I whisper, not wanting to wake my husband.  I walk to the bathroom, hoping to eliminate her.  

Back in bed, snug but hot, I close my eyes and wait...   Shit.  She's still there, dutifully, she continues:  'What kind of mother forgets to send her son an email when he's at sleepaway camp?"

Stay calm, I urge myself. Don't do it.  Don't let her take you down.  You have to wake up early, I remind myself.  'This isn't real...but wait...she's right...isn't she?  What kind of mother doesn't write her son an email every day he's at camp? 

"Exactly," she triumphs.

And just like that, I'm hooked.  We go deep, down the abyss of berating myself, until finally, she decides her work is done.  She dissipates and I fall asleep, exhausted, just before the sun comes up.  

Night is when we are most vulnerable to our unrest, when shame, fear, anger, and grief are most powerful.  These wretched feelings seem to breed by moonlight.  At night, alone in our beds, we are most ashamed of how we behaved; we fear the worst possible outcomes or the restless day ahead; we see how one treated us; we grieve the missed opportunity...  We are at the mercy of our foes and discretions.  

I wonder why we are so susceptible to our angst at night?  Don't those of us who are middle-aged or beyond know better by now-that come morning, nothing is nearly as pressing or as bad as they seem in the dark.  I will water the plants and write the email today.  No big deal.  Right? 

And yet the midnight voices never cease.  They might not come every night, but they are always nearby ready to bark...or perhaps herein lies the problem: that we perceive the voices as barking.  Perhaps the midnight voices serve a purpose beyond sleep deprivation?  Perhaps they are necessary to keep us in check?  Perhaps they signify something is awry: we've misbehaved, been mistreated, or are off our path?  Let us consider who is yelling: do we understand her as friend or foe?  Is she neurotic or sacred?  

What if we begin to understand the wake-up calls at face value?  Maybe the worst thing we can do is try to ignore the voices by burying our head under our pillows or turning the light on to distract ourselves with our book, or worse (!) our phone.  Maybe they're yelling at us not because they're angry, but because we're not listening.  What if we receive the information like we would when we observe tell tales flapping on our sails, and simply say "OK" to adjusting our course: "I'll water the plants tomorrow," or "I'll email Pip in the morning," or "Thank you for the reminder to pay the credit card."   Why must we imbue the voices with shame and fear?  What if they are on our side, here to help us find our next best step?   

The voices I heard last night got me here, writing, sharing, wondering.  And my hair ties and hangers are on their way.