Napping

I find myself nodding off these days. If I am sitting in any one place for too long it is bound to happen. Never one to relish sleep, I find I get about the same amount as I always have — 6 hours. It seems a waste of time, but now at the beginning of my seventh decade it is probably not enough. I try to adapt by sleeping longer but my body is not cooperating.

The earlier to sleep the sooner to wake; I lie in the dark and wait for the first glimmer of light to appear. Of course this works better in the summer. Now in December it can be a long wait and when it does come it is not the joyous light of summer but the subdued light of a sun hugging the horizon.

Once up the morning ritual begins: a shower, breakfast, email and weather checks, and then depending on the day a commute or not. I look forward to breakfast. I have always looked forward to breakfast and so do my caffeine receptors. It has been the same for years, a couple of pieces of whole grain bread with peanut butter and jelly, and if I really splurge some yogurt and a banana.

Certain things, trivial as they may be, have become ritualized. I am loath to change. I can’t deal with brunch — too much and too late. Like sleep it seems a colossal waste of time. Flexibility is harder to accommodate these days. I will if need be, but with loathing!

It may be time to consider napping. Several days ago in the middle of the afternoon I felt wasted, so with Charlotte’s urging I curled up on the couch under a down comforter and napped. Twenty or was it forty minutes later I awoke and shook off the drowsiness. The afternoon was more productive. It was better than nodding at the kitchen table and waking up with a stiff neck.

It is possibly time to adapt, even if in reverse. I watched my mother do this. In her seventies she methodically curtailed activities and responsibilities. We all chided her for it, but she paid us no mind. She was not sentimental about such things. Life moves on, has a certain rhythm. She’d taken care of enough ageing relatives to understand this.

And deep inside so did I. After all it is part of my calling as a family practitioner. Patients who were once engaging and independent sit napping in a chair as their son or daughter speak for them. It is the way of the world. Best not to fight just find a warm sunny spot, curl up and snooze.

Warm sunlight streams
Through the southern window,
A winter’s nap.

December 2013

Sunken

Winter to spring; spring to summer; summer to fall; fall to winter, and again and again the cycle repeats. From warmth to cold, furo to ro. Furo, the brazier, sits coolly upon a tatami mat between May and October. Ro, the sunken hearth, lies below the central tatami from November to April. In the chashitsu (tea hut) the source of heat is brought from the periphery to the middle. This is robiraki. It is what makes chanoyu (tea ceremony) eternal, relevant.

The ro’s heat is welcomed now not shunned. And along with heat it brings the introspection of winter. We are drawn to a deeper study. The frivolity of summer is gone, just in time before the warm breezes that rustle the greenery are taken for granted. We relaxed in its caress but knew it was foolish too. Nature reminds us, gently at first and then with strong northwest winds that bring the first hard frost.

Hats and gloves are dug out of their summer hiding places. Wool and down become intimate acquaintances once again. Walk out of work into snow and ice, and wonder why the snowbrush was ever taken out of the trunk. The ice encrusted windshield seemed so remote only a few days before. For whatever reason this naivety recurs yearly.

It is time to substitute polenta for angel hair pasta, a rich marinara sauce for pesto. A fragrant Barolo supplants a cool crisp Riesling. Chestnuts are roasted and tomato plants pulled out of the garden. The hope for one more ripe tomato is futile. They gave what they could given the circumstances. Grass is sheared one last time. Lawn furniture is tightly packed into the crawl space. The snow blower’s fuel is topped off and it is tested in the hope that it will start when the blizzards come.

In chanoyu the chawan (tea bowl) become thicker, its side’s steeper the better to hold in the heat. Chabana (flowers for tea) go from brightly colored blossoms and wild grasses to leaves ablaze with yellow and reds.

Haiku change from Bashô’s The melons look cool/flecked with mud/from the morning dew to Buson’s Blowing from the west/fallen leaves gather/in the east (Haiku Volumes 3 and 4, R.H. Blyth).

Panes of glass replace screens. Air conditioners are covered. Boiler pumps are oiled and radiators are purged of air. And in Chicago we are waylaid by bridges forced to rise for boats coursing down the Chicago River to their winter homes.

It is both a glorious and frustrating time of year. Thoughts wander to warmer climes. Will it be Florida, the Caribbean, or further south to geography with no chance of an encroaching frigid Canadian high.

The wind becomes a bully. Pushing us around until intimidated, we give up and stay indoors. Of course this is not universal. For the coordinated, skating and skiing are relished pastimes. Children rejoice in the snow, sliding down any hill that presents itself. Fireplaces are lite and huddled around. Hot toddies are drunk. Trees are decorated. Gifts are purchased. Christmas is anticipated and flys by leaving January and February to be dealt with.

The night is dense. Sounds are as crisp as the air. Snow muffles the city’s din. It is the time of the ro, the sunken hearth. A respite from a cold world that resides just inches away.

November 2013