Sleep

I have never been so sleep deprived, nor did I expect to be so.

My daughter rarely sleeps through the night, a fact that burdens me with fatigue, but one that also helps to heal me from the pain of not seeing her nearly as much as I would like. Our middle-of-night snuggles make me happy. So, it's not her fault that I am so tired.

The lack of sleep truly comes from my inability to shut down at night. I plan to go to bed at 9:15, and my plan fails... last night, for instance, I could not sleep until 11. My mind is busy, my body isn't ready to be asleep so soon. But my morning practice depends on my sleep; my ease of mind and kindness to my partner depend on my being rested. And yet going to bed at 9pm makes me sad...it cuts the day so short. Why must this body need 9 hours? (It does, by the way.)

My lack of sleep also fuels the sadness of missing her. I am somehow able to teach, write, go to meetings, maintain my practice...but the ongoing fatigue has now become part of the background of my life. Every night is a race to get to bed, only to find that my mind is full, that I long for her while she is sleeping, that I cannot stop checking in on her on the monitor. The grownups say this is normal and that sleep never returns.

My daughter also struggles with sleep.

One of the most interesting aspects of being a new parent, for me, is how long it now takes me to see something clearly. For instance, for months my partner and I have been wondering why our child will not sleep at 'baby school.' It was not until this weekend that I realized how difficult it must be for her to experience such different habits at home and at school. At home, I nurse her on demand in the warmth of my arms and my gaze and our tender handholding. At school, she is fed every 3 hours. At home, the nursing, mixed with the coziness of her bed, the smell of home, the sound of PC Davidoff or the ocean playing in the background, the perfect balance of heat and humidifier lull her to sleep. At school, they rest her whenever they can, and she awakens with a jolt at the sound of another baby's cry. The smells are different; the kindness is distant and slightly detached (though the teachers are sweet to her). It must be so hard.

Guilt and melancholy flood me as I sit here and read my words, while hooked up to the breast pump: my daughter is away from me all day. Other people play with her, feed her, change her, rock her. I watch her online...ugh. It's a blessing and a curse. It's no wonder that she cannot sleep, that she is glassy eyed and dreamy when I pick her up at the end of the day.

The value of sleep is beyond what I had ever thought it to be. It is a necessary drug; it is like blood, or like air. When I am able to find rest, I think the sadness will lift just a bit. I think I will see the two of us — my daughter and me — as independent females who are doing their own learning during the day. (Yes, of course, I would rather have her at a 'baby school' right in my building, but there is no such thing even on my campus.) Maybe when I get more sleep I will be able to be happy for her that she is learning and playing all day. Maybe I will be more alert during the long weekend days and won't need to snuggle her so much and feed her on demand; maybe then I will see the schedule from more of a distance and nurture her in a way that will help her sleep during the week.

The lack of sleep is taking the brightness out of my face. I would like to get that back, too.

Kino MacGregor has written something in her latest newsletter that strikes me. In her unraveling of the extraordinary power of yoga, she cautions her reader not to rely too heavily on the teacher or on the text; the student herself has to experience the window into the soul that yoga helps to reveal. She writes, "No one can live your awakening for you." I think about the needs we have that others can help us with, and those that we must take upon ourselves to fulfill. Sleep is a need — even a gift — that we must give to ourselves. Certainly, others can provide space and time for us...but we must allow ourselves the freedom to fall asleep, to insist on it. Savasana is such an apt comparison here — how challenging is it to stay in Savasana, especially here in the eastern part of the West? As we must allow ourselves to take rest at the end of the practice, so, too, must we seek out our sleep.

Maybe sleep will bring to me a new awakening.