I do love a pretty morning, there’s no question about that. That first light is refreshing and portentous, full of promise and all that. The birds do that morning song thing, the dew lolls about on the grass, and there is a pleasant quiet to be savored. Yeah, I get it. Mornings are nice. I understand and value that sentiment. However, I am a night owl. I always have been and always shall be. As a kid, I would leave my light on into the night, reading big chunks of whatever book I had going. The time would slip away before I was aware of it, and I would often be surprised that the next day had arrived. I was and am almost always reluctant to turn off my light and settle in for sleep. I love the night.
So today I will take a stand for the night owls out there. I know all about the taunting, the shaming, the eye-rolling by those smug early risers. “You’re not up yet?” an early caller will say with surprise. “Whaaaat? Why, I’ve been up since 5 a.m.!” Well, good for you. You have landed on your circadian rhythm and that is just great. Hurray. But ahem…. I, too, have found my own daily beat, and my eight hours in Sleepy Town are not your eight hours. That, my morning friend, does not make you a better human. I know that goes against what you have always been taught and have touted, but seriously… you gotta stop thinking that night owls are somehow irresponsible or childish or lazy. We just live our lives on a late night, late morning schedule. It’s allowed.
Now, the schedule of the society is more in tune with the early risers, I am well aware. When I was working full time at the newspaper, I was to be at work by 8 a.m. That’s basically the middle of the night for an owl. But I lived with an adjusted schedule for all those years, forcing myself to turn off my light at least by midnight in order to get up at 7. Now that I am in limbo from a “real” job and spending these precious months writing and writing and writing, my body has slipped back to its own rhythm, and I love it. I generally sleep seven to eight hours, probably just like an early riser. So I’m not lazy. I just ride a different train to Slumberland. It’s all good.
I have always looked toward the night hours as a respite. When my boys were little, the evenings were taken up with homework, baths, reading before bed, and long thoughtful talks. I fully admit that when they all had truly drifted into their own little snoring sleeps, I stretched with relief and looked toward the rest of the evening with comfort. No more phone calls. No more talking. No more having to put on a happy face or moderate any arguments or fuss with a kid about one thing or another. The evening always seems to stretch out with this delicious freedom. As a partial introvert, I adore alone time. I need to shut the heck up and contemplate the universe fairly regularly or I get fussy. The evenings and nights give me that quiet and peace. I am aware that morning people say, “You could have same thing starting at 5 a.m. No one is going to call you then, either.” Yeah, I get it. But it’s not the same. The morning is full of expectations and portentousness. The night….ahhh. It’s just a slow, gentle ride to eventual sleep. There is nothing ahead but my wonderful memory foam and down pillow, so I can just ease into the quiet expanse without expectations. The night is special. I love to step outside and just feel it. Gaze up at the stars or moon, and listen for muted sounds of all the nocturnal creatures. The night is smooth and soft, quiet and serene — but full of life, too.
When John and I were first together back in 1985 and ’86, he was living in North Carolina and I was here in Garrett County at my parents’ home. We would plan trips to see one another, and spend several days together. In High Point, N.C., where he moved in the fall of ‘85, we often took night time walks. We used a Walkman (remember those?) with split headphones so we could both listen to music, usually stuff from Windham Hill, like George Winston. Soothing and cool… We often walked on the High Point Golf Course. Such a lovely place, with a waterway where geese huddled at night. The moon would shine on the water, and our pupils would adjust to the dimness. We would hold hands and stride along, breathing in the cooled air and chatting about life. Ah, to be 22 again… John worked for Domino’s Pizza, so he was often at his job until the wee hours of the day. He, too, was a night owl, especially then, so our circadian rhythm matched — along with much of our personalities. The night was especially romantic to me then, spending those quiet, intimate hours with just him and just me, while the rest of the world snoozed.
Time moves differently at night, maybe slower, or maybe more smoothly. The minutes tick away, but they don’t pester me so much. Time is more of a pal in the dark, nodding in my direction like a friend. “Hey, sister… it’s about 1 a.m. Hope you’re enjoying that…” And I answer, “Oh, sure. I love it. I’m good. I have nothing pressing in the morning, so we’re all cool.” And on we go together, with no stress or worry. My cats do sometimes seem to wonder what I’m doing. Miles will leap up onto my desk and bump my face with his, making raspy meow sounds. He will sometimes then settle down right between my arms as I type, so that I have to reach around him to get to the keyboard. He purrs and nudges me, finally settling his head against my forearm and drifting off. Other times he just keeps getting in my face, bumping me and pestering, and I think that’s when he would like to get settled in bed but only if I am there as well, so could I please hurry it up? Cats are great. I love them entirely.
As I write these very words, the clock says 11:10. That’s p.m., of course. My initial reaction is, “Oooh, still early.” The next two hours are all mine. My lamp makes a perfect pool of light in the midst of the night. It’s a comfort, this warm light pushing out just enough of the dark so that I can see to work, and feel secure. My little boat of light, floating in the soft, warm night. This is a magic time, when so many are tucked in bed, reading or watching a late night show, sleepy and disengaged from all the day’s hubbub. They are getting ready to untie their boats and drift off on the soft waves of sleep, that mysterious need we all have. Isn’t it strange, really, that we do this every day? That we lie down and adjust our bodies, and then we let our brains switch tracks, leaving our awareness and moving to the unknown — to that strange place of intentional unconsciousness? It’s weird. While we feel that we “drift” to sleep, it is actually a distinct switch that flips when we “fall” asleep. The brain changes, one moment to the next, awake to sleep. And then… those synapses start to go a little wonky. Faces and feelings of the day or the week or the year float by, and we have conversations and visions and such a range of emotion. Apparently our brain has to sort of purge every day, to squeeze itself out and shake a bit before reengaging itself for the next day of wakefulness. It has to defragment and get all its machinery cleaned up and in working order before we can wake in the morning and survive another day of this utterly bizarre human existence.
When I was a student at WVU, I took a journaling class. We learned about our dreams and how they are unique to each person. Our prof maintained that dreaming of a snake for one person doesn’t necessarily mean the same for another. Probably never, really. Our brains are amazing at creating our own unique symbols for the components of our waking lives. For instance, I like snakes and am not afraid of them. I think they are fascinating creatures. So my brain isn’t going to use a snake to freak me out, which may be the case for another person’s brain. We did an interesting exercise of writing down all the nouns of a recent dream — maybe a nest of birds, a man, a car with dents, a bagel with mold — all the nouns of a dream. And then we wrote out what those particular things meant to us personally. In this way we could determine, at least we thought, what our brain was working on in its synapse cleansing time while we slept. You should try it. Sleep, dream, wake up, write all the nouns, and then later look at the words and think what they each mean to you. Bet you’ll find something cool that your brain was working on. But oh my… I have digressed. And made myself sleepy in the process. Whoops.
Where were we? Oh, yeah. Championing the night owls of the world. I saw an article some time ago that stated intelligent people tend to be night owls. While I would like to latch onto that and say, “See?? We’re just extra brainy!” I must resist. I think perhaps those who are night owls might tend to be smarter, but I don’t think that means that only those who stay up are smart. I know plenty of early-to-bedders who are smart, too. But the article pointed out that staying up late is a relatively “new” development in our evolution, as our ancestors didn’t have a convenient way to have enough light at night to do much, so sleeping was usually the go-to. And thus formed the early-to-work societal norm, too. But being a night owl is apparently genetic and natural, and now humans can roll with it since there are light bulbs and shining computer screens available for vision, and pestering cats for attention. So those who operate on a late night, late morning schedule are deemed “evolutionary progressives.” Woo-hoo! I think I’ll put that in my resume.
Now the clock says 12:13 and I admit the sleepiness is encroaching. My soft bed awaits, as do my cats. To all you late-lovers out there, I say happy night to you all! Enjoy that quiet, dark peace that some never understand. Take it in and feel gratitude for your late-to-bed life. I sure do. We are not lazy. We just prefer a later train.
Good night, all!
