It is 2 a.m.
I am awake. And I am reminded of one of the few sayings I have pinned to my Pinterest board: “2 a.m.’s were made for poets. Lovers/writers. Visionaries. Photographers. Painters. Over thinkers. Silent seekers. These are my favorite hours.”
They used to be. In college, I was a night owl. Took me until senior year to figure out I should not schedule classes before noon. My muses sensed the shift in my energy at 8 p.m. and the party began. Some of my best papers were overnighters.
Tonight is a different 2 a.m. I feel the magic could be there. But the screaming meanies I usually keep at bay are having their way with me.
We received test results for my ex. Cancer—again. Even as I write these words, I know I cannot publish this blog entry until we’ve told the kids. I wondered, at the beginning of my divorce, if I was enough. I have found I am. It does not mean I would ever choose to do this alone unless I felt it the only alternative.
I have been jamming on A Course in Miracles. I feel the positive shift. I stay in the moment. But this—this is big. The voices clamor for my attention. Boys need a father. Will he be here long? So much water under the bridge—why did it have to be this way? If this were 16 years ago, I would be at his side. Now, I am an onlooker who is also the mother of his children. His grieving children.
I did all the right things over the past 24 hours. Talked to them matter of factly. Hugged. Cried with them. Emphasized we celebrate each day as it comes. Sent my youngest to school with the loudest, most hideous sequined St. Patrick’s Day tie I could find. Laughed with him in the car as we tried out our Irish voices. But there are moments I wish I were still the child. That my mother and father could just hug me, comfort me and tell me all will be well.
I am betting a good percentage of you have had your own smack-down with the screaming meanies at 2 a.m. I plan on winning this one. Staying in the moment. Reading, writing as I am now, meditating. Letting life unfold as it will, whether I listen to the voices or not.
And then—another of my few Pinterest quotes comes to me: “There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.”
Thank you, Rumi.
And I sleep.