Awake
There is no other hour in the whole of the twenty-four as quiet, as dark, as far removed from the light of day as the hour of three in the morning. Even nature herself is shuttered and still - the raucous choir of cicadas now hushed, the great-horned owl sitting silent. No wider than an eyelash, the crescent moon casts a feeble light into the bedroom window, painting shadows too pale, too watery, to be of much interest. The only glow in the room comes from Edward, whose fur, the colour of ivory, always shines in the darkness. I hear him sigh in his sleep. Indeed, the only sounds in the room are the contented breaths of those dreaming beside me. I alone am awake.
Knowing the dawn is coming, knowing how out of sorts I shall be when it does, I give studious thought to going to sleep. But that never works, now does it? Sleep cannot be chased down, nor sternly summoned when it has left y0u alone in the dark. I turn my pillow over to the cool side, give it a punch or two. I close my eyes in determination. But no matter. My thoughts are at a carnival - flashing lights and music, sweet aromas, gusting wind.
Known throughout ages as being reliable, I turn to the sheep for help. Lining them up in a green meadow, I point to the stone wall in the distance and instruct them to jump over, one at a time, in slow rhythmic fashion, as I count each one by wooly one. But before the first fellow takes even a step, my thoughts have turned to knitting their wool into presents and I think about this new sweater pattern.
And then once again I’m off, my imagination unleashed, my mind awhirl.
I ponder the book I’ve just finished, the one in which the heroine attends a midnight dinner where the dishes are served on mirrors and the host “wears a suit of vibrant purple with a gold paisley waistcoat, and throughout the evening, he smokes specially made cigars that spout matching violet smoke.” She herself wears an elaborate gown that changes colours, “shifting through a rainbow of hues to compliment whomever she is closest too”.
Then I’m thinking of a plane bound for Vietnam on which sits my dear friend Jeanne, who is moving this very week from London to that strange, unknown city. What a remarkable adventure for this beautiful, interesting woman. You should join her on this journey for Jeanne is a fabulous photographer and this promises to be a wonderful, enlightening time for all her blog readers.
Find her HERE.
Having recently spent too much time down the enchanted rabbit hole that is Pinterest,
I recall this wonderful image, and I’m thinking of Christmas, making lists, making plans.
You can find Edward and me on Pinterest HERE.
Such beautiful images, sure to set your imagination loose.
But I warn you, it's addictive!
But I warn you, it's addictive!
Oh, I think about Scotland and wonder how soon I can get back to this charming place. I think about the six hundred year old bra recently discovered in Austria. Who knew? I wonder who the people are who care about the Kardashians, what the new novel by JK Rowling will be like, if Shirley MacLaine will be a good fit for Downton Abbey and when exactly did pregnancy become saddled with the dreadful moniker of “baby bump”?
Continuing in this roundabout fashion until the bedroom began to shimmer with the hazy pink of a hot July morning, I finally fell asleep just as The Songwriter’s alarm began to ring, and for someone so wide awake at three in the morning, I am awfully sleepy at noon.
I hope to do better tonight.
Any suggestions?
