Haze of Sleep | Practice

Ah, yes. The haze of sleep deprivation in these early weeks with a newborn. I find myself a bit anxious as the day winds down, anticipating those wake-ups. Though I am nursing, I have a beautiful partner who gets up once in the night to give our child a bottle of breast milk, and this contributes enormously to my sanity. Nevertheless, the mind and heart are always awake throughout the night, even as the body sleeps...and the wake-up is an emotional business. A reminder that he is here, an immediate need, a slow lifting of oneself out of the cocoon of bed. And the haze stays with us during the day, inviting us into both a remembering and a forgetfulness. The daydreaming, melancholy, and creativity that bubbles up with nursing. The vast gaps in our memory of time. Things found in the cupboard that should be in the fridge. Slips of the tongue.

I wake up from a night of turbulent rest and feel compelled to go right to work. My partner said to me the other day, "If you hadn't just had a baby, you'd go right to practice at this time, right?" "Of course," I said. "Well," said he, "at this time, you must sleep instead of practice."

Hmmm. Yes. And I try. But the sleep void is also a form of practice.

 I think there is something magical and beneficial in this haze. The edges are all blurry, the mind is untethered (except, of course, in those insane sleep-deprived moments when a missing sock becomes very, very important). This haze creates a churning of the mind. Add breastfeeding to that haze and what comes into vision is a collage of memories, understandings, images of reality that change shape constantly, and many, many emotions. These visions rearrange our minds. When the haze lifts, we find a kind of enlightenment, if we are able to see it.

 The other night I was rocking my baby, and I began to cry. I don't know what sparked it, but I suddenly realized that I had been holding him at arm's length since we had come home from the hospital, afraid of hurting my daughter's feelings. I realized why I missed those days in the NICU—the hospital ice, the sounds of machines and the soft voices of the nurses, the early mornings spent alone eating my oatmeal and hard-boiled egg in the cafeteria. I missed those days because he and I were alone in our secret love affair, without the guilt of seeing my sweet daughter's face turn away when I look fondly upon him. I cried and cried because I was so sorry for holding back, and because I was so sorry for asking my daughter (who is frugal with her affection) to share the love space. And a membrane separating the rooms of the heart began to dissolve in that haze of worry and love and the smell of him and the image of her face.

 We sleep to rest the mind and body. To be pulled out of sleep and wade through the thick fog that the deprivation creates is a test and a journey leading somewhere beautiful. It is its own kind of practice. While the belly heals, the heart and brain collaborate to open space for two children; to churn patience between parents like rolling, buttery fields of calm; to turn it all back inward to cleanse the soul.