Musings from an Insomniac

It has always started with the birds. As far back as I can remember, the birds have been the soundtrack to my surrender, the inevitability of the dawn. I wrestle with trying to shut them out as much as I wrestle with the idea of getting out of bed and taking a brisk walk around my sleepy neighborhood.

I’m on my feet in one swift motion, careful not to rouse my husband. I can hear his deep, rhythmic breaths as I slip on my sports bra and hoodie. The black-out curtains have tutored me in years of moving about my room in the pitch and still darkness. I’ve always thought I’d make an excellent thief.

I grab my AirPods and phone just before checking in on my boys before I leave our quiet world.

It’s still quite dark outside with the twilight blues outlining the winter barren tree branches. I inhale a deep, cold breath as I make my way to the street.

I always turn left at this time of morning, knowing that within a few minutes the sun will spill its rays across the landscape. The hilly roads light up like a river. The familiar greeting of the sun is like an old friend whose presence brings me comfort in the same measure of despair.

“Hey Siri, play “Sunrise” by Coldplay. Like clockwork, the opening of the cello and violins synchronizes with the burning orange creeping along the horizon. The calm. The comfort. The steadfastness of the sun gives me a sense of teary-eyed hope and anxiety. A simultaneous blend of a feeling I chase but marred by the feeling that chases me.

This scene. This same sun. I have watched it rise thousands and thousands of times since I was three years old. I’ve watched it rise alone, for the most part. I’ve watched the sun rise in four continents, in nine countries, from dozens of cities. I can’t fight it, can’t push it down or away. Deep breath. The symphony of sounds keeps my breathing steady and calm. The day comes without my bidding. It comes whether or not I’ve punched in hours of sleep. No matter what, the sun rises.

The gentle tone of David Phelps serenades me as I cross the small streets. I see bedroom lights and kitchen lights speckle on in rhythm to his swaying notes of “...O mio babbino caro...” Deep breath. I walk downhill as the sun bathes the new day in it’s warmth. If not in temperature at least in color on this chilly morning. A few cars pass.

Moments later, I reach the end of the neighborhood where the main road is already bustling with cars, unaware of the performance the sun has put on for me yet again. Andrea Bocelli fills the space with warmth and beauty, “Sogno” and “Con te partiro” glow in between my breaths. I stand and wait there beside the road despite the oddness of the scene: a tousle-haired woman in pajamas, closing her eyes and breathing deep.

Tears fill my eyes. I have to accept that today has started and will continue. So, it is there at the top of that hill where the road meets the other road, I offer my salutation to the new day. If I can’t run from it, or tell it to go back down, then my only option is to welcome it. The boisterous voice of the Tenor makes me feel brave and strong for a moment. My pilgrimage is complete. Deep breath.

After a few moments, I turn to head towards home. The same voices and symphonies usher me back as I meander through the streets back to my front door. I stand there as I hear the birds again. I check on my boys. I quietly slip back into bed. As though my whole routine were rewound in perfect rhythm. I turn to my husband as he stretches and turns towards me.

“Good morning, Sunshine.”