Sleeping In: The Cost of Self-Indulgence

Sleeping in is now the most subversive act in my repertoire. 

Make note, it’s no governmental regime I’m undermining with the snooze button set to stun, it’s my own precious daily routine... a routine which has come to mean more to me than I could have possibly forseen.

Mere weeks ago, rising at 8 am would have been a rare and bravely executed exception to the rule, performed for only the most significant events (be they onerous or erstwhile).  Not since I lived in an ashram environment eight years ago has there been a hint of regularity in my schedule.  Being self-employed has its hazards.

Today, 8 am is precisely an hour and a half late.  Not only would I usually be circling the 800 mark by now in terms of the number of written words it takes to start rubbing up against the breakthrough inherent in the practice, but I’d be on the second cup of tea and the construction noises outside the window wouldn’t have started yet.  Nor would the cat be yowling at my partner to get up and play chase-the-fleecy-thing with her.

About two weeks before this writing challenge began, I had an unexpected healing encounter.  In addition to my home enterprise, I work at the local food co-op.  We had a woman come in who was to train the staff on a line of flower essences, and part of that training was to give us individual consultations.  She showed us a list of of emotional traits and asked us to consider which ones apply to ourselves in preparation for our sessions.

When I met with her, she asked what struck me from the list.  I’d seen two opposite characteristics that I hoped to balance: being driven to work to exhaustion, and procrastination.  I explained that I’m prone to a sort of Hyperfocus ADD behaviour when working on an important project, wherein all self-care falls into disrepair and neglect. I also have what I perceived as a lackadaisical approach to my home business; there are days I just don’t feel like creating a newsletter or updating databases or making phone calls, and so I don’t.  I usually don’t do it the next day either.  This was the dilemma I presented to this dear, soft-spoken woman with the white braid at the back of her head.

She listened attentively and patiently, then leaned ever so slightly forward and said, “Yes, but where does the sadness come from?”

Oh, so this is how it’s going to be, I thought. Nobody told us she was an empath.  Geez.  Her blue eyes sparked at me, waiting.  So I told her.  I told her, and she listened, and she gave me advice that was related not in the least to the essences she’s come to share with us.   She made a point of saying that I’m not lazy, I’m chronically exhausted and need to learn how to stop and truly rest. She spoke of “rhythm” when she advised me to wake, eat, and sleep at the same times each day. She assured me that I will be compensated for the sacrifices I’ve made for the sake of my early antagonist.  She gave me a hug and sent me on my way with my little gift bag of goodies.

In the days that followed, I took her advice to heart as if she’d been my own fairy grandmother.  I began waking earlier in order to have an actual breakfast meal.  I embraced the notion of “rhythm” where I’d failed to accomplish the same thing under different names (regularity, discipline, routine) for years. 

Mornings have become my gift to me; rising a wee bit earlier each day, making my cup of tea and padding in sock feet to where the keyboard sits expectantly, allowing a more genuine me to reveal herself before the bustle of other people and activities begins.

The tea itself is an important part of the routine.  Having spontaneously broken a serious coffee habit two months ago, I’ve come to revel in the vast variety of experiences available through the medium of tea.  We have a full cupboard dedicated to my experimental impulses in this arena, the most recent addition to which is Matcha - that brilliant green powder celebrated and treated with such reverent attentiveness in Japanese Tea Ceremonies.  I tried it first at work, and it left me with a sublime inner sense that I could only describe by saying, “it feels like a great hug on a a beautifully rainy day”.

Apart from the health benefits, the rapturous flavor experience and the bliss-buzz the beverage itself imparts, the ceremony holds a growing fascination for me.  The spare and deliberate movements, the quiet humility , the two-point turns of the bowl at various points (the meaning of which I have yet to discover) bespeak a reverence I hope to nurture back to health in my own regard of daily routines.  I’ve begun to crave rising early enough in the morning to partake in a solitary ritual of centering and self-care with which to sanctify the day.

Today I missed out on that sacred jump-start because of the extra time spent wallowing amongst my pillows in soporific glory.  My penance is that, as opposed to the idyllic writer’s dreamday of three days ago, I am now tapping out my mental sputterings from the waiting room of a car dealership while my vehicle is serviced, the only available seat wedged next to the parts area with its wafting essence of rubber and grease.  Vying to divert my attention from the keyboard are intermittent calls from my tax guy (quarterlies are due today, darlings) and the monstrous flat screen unavoidably in front of me with the World Cup proceedings on display there.  This very moment I am actively efforting to blank out the commentators’ voices and focus instead on the constant drone of the noisemakers of the crowd.  It’s as if I’m in a bubble in a beehive, immersed in the buzzing sounds but without fear of a sting.  From another angle, it might sound like the gravely, booming, breath-stilling sounds that call Tibetan monks to prayer. 

I take a deep breath myself and reach for the stainless steel cylinder at my side...

I got some extra doze time, for sure - but I’ve had to take my ceremonial tea in a to-go cup.