I awaken many weeknights these days in utter terror. I'd like to blame it on mid-life hormones, but I know better. On the weekends, I make up for it, sometimes sleeping 10 hours at a stretch with no problems. Clearly I do not have sleep issues. The weeknight demons are playing with me again.
I've written many times about the bright side of dark panic, which for me, usually means I am on the cusp of a creative streak or a personal growth. Sometimes, in the still of the wee hours, the sounds of the refrigerator humming or the dog snoring are magnified and I focus on them and come back to earth. To now.
Other times, it's words that tether me to now. Writing them. Reading them. Remembering the power of just a single sentence, a touch, a look, or a great idea conveyed in random symbols reassembled in my racing brain that say, "You are here. It's okay."
After I've done the relaxation breaths, hugged my dog and had a mug of warm milk, I turn to the words. I had no intention of writing through tonight's midnight demons, so I read others' words. Just two hours ago a dear friend mentioned my name on Facebook. She said, "Their authenticities (including my name with two other writers I respect deeply) yield a wealth of magic."
Wow, someone said something beautiful about my words. My words made a difference to another. Really? Yes, really. Okay, then.
I read the sentence again. And again. Yep, it's really there. I am not delirious with panic. The words are really there. Someone else is awake. I touched someone. Wow.
So, I'll just keep at it, trying my best, telling the truth as I see it and seeing if perhaps the beauty of another's words in my dark moments might provide a piece of driftwood in the swift current of my mind.
I hang on and float.
Midnight demons float dowstream and morning angels awaken.