0345

 I woke up at 0345 the night before last.  This has been a trend lately for a couple of reasons.  

The first - the reasonable one - is the fact that Daylight Savings Time has cursed me once again with its gift of disrupted schedule.  Every year we do this, it is a little harder to adjust.  The discussions that I remember my elders having about all the issues of aging springs again to my mind.

The second - the one that is something I have noticed as a trend - is that I had alcohol with dinner.  I simply do not sleep well anymore and always wake up early after having alcohol - again, something that seems to become more prevalent as the years go by.  I have been phasing alcohol out anyway, but this is just moving that process all the quicker.

I can lay in bed, or I can get up.  As The Ravishing Mrs. TB still seems to be asleep, I roll out of bed, grab my glasses, and head for the door.  Poppy The Brave, who often now goes to bed with us and sleeps in the chair in our room (as opposed to the chair in living room which is theoretically for anyone but really seems to be hers) gets up to go out with me.

As we come out, A the Cat greets us - as usual, I have to shoo him away from the door lest he scoot in and hop up on the bed.  Instead, I coax him along as I shut the door.  Poppy heads off to her chair; A and I get ready for our early morning routine.

I will lay on the couch, at which point A will hop up and walk over to my chest, where he will promptly head butt me while purring, then settle himself on top of me.  Sometimes - like this morning - he then proceeds to give himself a vigorous cleaning as if somehow having a human platform makes cleaning a more pleasurable act.  Finally he settles into ball, purring away until it stops and he goes to sleep.

I do not tell A this of course, but I find these times some of the most enjoyable.  For me, there is some visceral about having a happy cat sleeping on you that makes all right with the world.

Laying as I am, on the couch and below the level of the family room window, I cannot really see out.  The light from our neighbor's backyard hanging lights floods in as it does every night since they moved in.  I cannot remember precisely when this started, only that it started.  Beyond just the annoyance of having light throughout the night, I have no idea why anyone would do this - beyond just seemingly being rude, who wants to pay for that electricity?

Whether because of the lights or just because, a bird is singing away in the dark.  I am reminded later by The Ravishing Mrs. TB  that this happens every year about this time.  I again have no idea why a bird would sing away in the dark, as if trying to call forth the attention of the owls I know frequent the neighborhood.

Off in the distance, I hear a train horn for the local switching yard about four miles away.  It strikes me that I almost never hear it in the during the day; is it just the ambient noise of the day, the fact they do not sound, or the fact that I simply do not pay attention?  It reminds me of growing up when, due to the train tracks being less than a mile away, I would also hear them in the dark.

Closer, I hear a truck driving through our neighborhood.  Usually if I am laying a bit in bed (or on the couch), this is how I judge the time:  by how many cars and trucks I hear leaving for work.  In this case it is only one; it is likely still earlier than my normal rising time.

I do not really "sleep" as I lie there, although I think that in some cases I might have done so. I feel A dreaming on my chest, his paws racing after something.  He starts to slide a bit and resettles, giving a head butt or two to make sure I am still there.  The bird continues to sing, the light continues to pour in over the couch edge.  I have flashes of dreams that seem like hallucinations, yet at no time do I feel that I have slipped over the edge into sleep.

Finally at some point, A starts to wake up.  It is not necessarily a clock, but it is his clock.  I check the time - 0615, a little later than I like to get up but more or less on target.  I creak off the couch and pass through the kitchen, clicking on the coffee pot as I prepare for my morning routine.

I know in the back of my mind that I will be exhausted today, and that the likelihood that I will nod off in a meeting I am not leading is real (especially with the reality of working from home and being in meetings on mute, it has almost happened more than once).  Yet I cannot find it my heart to be particularly grumpy about it.

Those moments in time - stretched out with a rumbling cat on my chest, listening to the night noises - have a certain peace about them that I cannot replicate.  There is something about being on the couch with the edges above one that create a barrier in my mind to the larger world around me.  For a time, I can simply push everything away and be in the moment.

Outside the cars start the sounds of their daily parade.  The world is starting.