Life. Stalled.

I lay wrapped in a hundred blankets last night, with the window wide open, listening to a violent wind and reading Somewhere Towards the End. I have, you see, been overcome by the kind of blessed lethargy I have ached for on so many of the sleepless nights that have gone before. The delicious warm throb of laziness slowing down my days and on Saturday at least, having me lose an entire afternoon to lounging among patchwork quilts, drifting in and out of a lazybones sleep. I have never been good at lying in bed. I am usually possessed by the need to know. By the need to solve something, to buy something, to learn something, or control something. Sometimes I have been forced to stay there. By romance or bodily refusenic and always I have laid there resentfully, trying to block out life hammering at my bedroom door, and ignore the worry that my presence is needed elsewhere or that the gods of all that is decent would be appalled by my sloth. But not now. Now by bed is a beautiful retreat: a sanctuary from worldly demands and a place I lie absolutely still in somewhat astonished at my ability to just be. And I cannot stop sleeping! Not like that crazy kind of tiredness one experiences in the early months of pregnancy, but an honest need to sleep to relive both physical and mental exhaustion. I cannot wake up in the mornings. I beg the universe to rewind time and let me sleep a while longer and I count down the hours until a decent hour to get into bed arrives all over again.

This then is not sloth. Nor is it any kind of depression. The weight of the black dog settling all over again on to my very soul. No. This is, I suspect a period of dormancy while decisions about life, love and vintage housekeeping are made. A settling in with myself, for if happiness has to be imagined before it can be experienced, then it is necessary to tune in to what our very vision of happiness looks like...

Today I feel alive. Well and truly rested. Though I have not made any plans that could have been disrupted by a little boy home from school with a hacking cough, still I am demented by the need to create something. Creativity then, is a form of torture. A demanding regime that takes possession of the rested heart and body and demands to dictate every last hour of our day. Creativity is also a dictator intent on the relentless destruction of what is, and the kind of laziness I have indulged in over the weekend merely the precursor to action that may or may nor turn all our worlds upside down.

Now though there is a child and a persistent cat on my knee. Dan Reed playing into our sniffy silence (the kind of musical philosophy one cannot help but absorb, almost by osmosis). More chocolate brownies baking in the ice cold kitchen and yes, this delicious overwhelming need to do nothing at all for now, shrouding me like a gorgeous velvet cloak.

Yes, action may be imminent... but for now there is music, gorgeous apathy and a child with the kind of rasping cough that makes him sound like Captain Caveman. Life under this patchwork quilt is exactly as it should be.