Insomnia - Goodnight

According to my husband who is the only person to know this, I am fast asleep as soon as I’ve wished him goodnight. If only I could stay that way until morning. About an hour later, I’m awake, needing the bathroom and this is the pattern through the night, every night. Most times I’m immediately off to sleep again, sometimes not. The nights of waiting for everyone to be home before I can settle properly are long gone, thank goodness.

It doesn’t take much to spook me. Our neighbourhood is quiet, so the slightest sound outside puts me on full alert and I lie still, listening, worrying about someone on the prowl, tampering with doors and cars. I dare to peep but I can’t focus straight away and I’m scared of being noticed, if there is anyone. I’m on another visit to the bathroom.

I wonder if I heard a noise downstairs, or if the toilet flush just sounded like it was something. I rush back to the safety of the bedroom before anything looms out of the darkness. Sirens, there’s always bloody sirens, even at silly o’clock. I’d love to know what’s going on, or maybe it is better that I don’t. I’m safe and cosy under the duvet.

I’m falling from a great height. There’s a loud bang before I hit the bottom of wherever I was going to land. I don’t know if it was a real bang or if I was dreaming. I’m awake again, but paralysed, listening to silence. It sounded like a car crash. If I’m meant to know, I’ll find out. Stay still, stay safe. Go back to sleep.

Disturbed again. This time my coughing wakes me up. I’m coughing due to acid reflux. And coughing makes me need the bathroom again. I sip some water and sit up in bed for a few minutes playing Tetris or Block Puzzle on my phone. I can settle again now that the coughing has stopped.

Insomnia, maybe it is, or maybe not. Night after night is like this. I don’t fit into any recognised category except having a sensitive bladder, a result of surgery. I’m not aware of stress or anxiety. When morning comes I’m dead to the world, in a deep sleep which probably started around four a.m.

Here’s Philip Larkin,

How to Sleep

Child in the womb,
Or saint on a tomb –
Which way shall I lie
To fall asleep?
The keen moon stares
From the back of the sky,
The clouds are all home
Like driven sheep.

Bright drops of time,
One and two chime,
I turn and lie straight
With folded hands;
Convent-child, Pope,
They chose this state,
And their minds are wiped calm
As sea-levelled sands.

So my thoughts are:
But sleep stays as far,
Till I crouch on one side
Like a foetus again –
For sleeping, like death,
Must be won without pride,
With a nod from nature,
With a lack of strain,
And a loss of stature.

           Philip Larkin, 1922 - 1985

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Feathers - Superstitious? Me?

 

 

 



 

 

 

I knew that the small, white feather on the bedroom floor had escaped from the duvet as I made the bed, but for a fleeting moment I was happy to think it was a sign from my late father and I smiled.  Superstition, of course, but it gave me a few moments of joyful memories of my lovely dad and there’s no harm in that.

 

I was brought up to understand that peacock feathers are a bad omen and not welcome in the house. They are a sign of doom, even death, apparently. In Greek mythology  Argus, a monster covered with eyes, was changed into a peacock by Hera, so maybe that is where the superstition comes from. A peacock in full plumage with such rich colour is beautiful and majestic.  Even so, I heed to those who have gone before, just in case.

 

Magpies bother me and when I see one, or hopefully more than one, I have to say the rhyme. If it is alone, I say “Good morning, Mr Magpie” which should be enough to protect me, again just in case.  Magpies have stunning deep blue colouring on their wings. The only time I’ve seen a magpie up close is when the unfortunate, motionless bird was gripped in the jaws of my springer spaniel.  No wonder I feel doomed.

 

I found this paragraph in an article about the superstitions of feathers in Nature Center Magazine, written by Emma Springfield.  I’ve never heard of this before and as it made me laugh, I’d like to share it.

 

    “Feathers from a wren are used by sailors to prevent shipwreck. The wren must be chased, caught and killed on Christmas Eve. Then it was carried on top of a pole with its wings outstretched.  For a coin one feather was bought.  At the end of the day so many sailors would have purchased a feather that the wren was practically featherless.  It would then be buried on the seashore.  The sailor would keep the feather on his person in order to make it home safely.”

 

White feathers have been a symbol of cowardice. The Order of the White Feather was founded at the start of World War I and reinstated at the start of World War II, where white feathers were given to men who hadn’t joined the military forces and considered to be ‘conscientious objectors’.

 

The feather that came out of my duvet got pushed back inside one of the sections because I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It is the warmest, lightest, most comfortable duvet we’ve ever had because it is filled with goose feather and down. As a child I remember the Paisley patterned eiderdowns we had, the same as my grandparents, back in the days of sheets and blankets before duvets or continent quilts reached our shores. Our beds were never cold, thanks to the feathers.

 

I found this poem,

 

'Hope' is the thing with feathers—
That perches in the soul—
And sings the tune without the words—
And never stops—at all—

And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—
And sore must be the storm—
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm—

I've heard it in the chillest land—
And on the strangest Sea—
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb—of Me.

Emily Dickinson

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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