Although I’ve always been a night owl, I do wish I could go to sleep when I want and need to. I went to bed just after 3:30 this morning and lay there for well on an hour and a half until I finally fell to sleep. I was sleeping pretty well, too, but a mere two hours later I heard a small squabble going on between the kids and I was awake again. It’s no fault of theirs; when I’m like this a fly scratching its back legs on my wall will wake me up.

I lay there until a little after 7:30, drifting softly between sleep and wakefulness, a wholly pleasant sensation. I was aware of everything. The soft blanket against my foot, my face caressed by the pillowcase, my low, barely there breathing. Everything feels soft to me and has all week. This is not merely a feeble attempt to describe my emotional responses to my environment, it is an altogether visceral thing. I feel as if my senses are wrapped in a down and silk blanket. I move more gently through my day and nothing seems to be able to get in to bother me. Perhaps it’s the meds. Perhaps it’s the weather. Or perhaps it’s both.