Saturday, July 13, 2002

Nap, n.

Somewhere between awhile ago and this moment, I fell asleep. Our bed was made, rare, and I laid down, undisturbed, and slept; a far more rare thing indeed. I do not recall how long it has been since I have been unconscious, not governed by the voices of children and chores, my husband, the phone, or the nameless dread of life in civilization. I cannot recall waking suddenly, or searching for a comfortable way to rest my parts. I didn't dream. I didn't hear trucks, or pounding. No one came to me, for any reason. And I had forgotten that an experience like this, time spent suspended between reality and profound healing rest, can transform the mind, body and spirit.

My first complete sensation was the sweet looseness of muscles and thoughts and breath. Nothing hurt or felt urgent, anxious. I knew from the flavor of the air that Grandmother was cooking. She had prepared something that seasoned the very molecules around my head, and I thought of the warmth and generosity of her. I saw our cat, sleeping. She opened one eye, and saw me too. That was sufficient for her. She went back to her dreams, confidently, easily. And I thought, sleep like this could make anyone beautiful. I thought about looking in a mirror to see if the subtle, soft and quiet way I felt, was tangible, visible.

Nap, n.
1. a brief, light sleep; a doze
2. to be off one's guard

It was definitely the latter. What a wonderful nap.

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