The stuff of sleep & memory

I HAVE TWO sleep positions. On my back and on my right side. I cannot sleep on my left side because my heartbeat disturbs me. It’s been this way for decades.

On my back, I tend to snore, which bothers my child bride, so I try to stay on my right side, but sometimes in the dead of night I flip on my back unintentionally.

I also require two pillows, a large and a small. My head rests normally on the large, and I clasp the small to my chest, hugging it. I wonder why I do this. Believing a good bit in reincarnation, it occurs to me that I might have been murdered once, perhaps with a knife, arrow or pike in my chest, and that deep memory lingers.

Being piked or knifed or arrowed once is sufficient for me.

There is evidence that memories of past lives lurk within.

I did, many years ago, a number of breathwork sessions with professionals. I did not get much out of them, with one exception. For no more than two or three seconds, I was inside what appeared to be a Medieval stone building. There was nothing dreamlike about it. It was plain as day, or night in that case. It was rather dark. But very real.

Maybe I hugged my chest pillow tighter that night. I do not recall.

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Little comas

THE HUMAN body does strange things.

For instance, we spend a third of our lives in a coma, a state of suspended animation. We have a soft place to lie down for this, and we put on comfy clothing, or we just strip naked.

I refer to our need for sleep, of course.

I sleep like the proverbial log, normally. It helps to not have something worrying you. Have you noticed that worries magnify magnificently at night? A trifling concern in daytime becomes a monster worry after the lights go out.

And then when you wake in the morning, that same worry shrinks to its proper proportion, easily resolved.

My child bride worries about everything, so she doesn’t sleep as soundly as I do. She has a mob of relatives, all of whom have big-time issues, being Mexican and all, and she worries about every one of those relatives, nonstop.

I don’t worry about her relatives at all, and I only have two on my side. My daughter who lives in a field of clover, and my nutty sister whom I have not heard from in three years.

You’d think I might worry about that latter, but I do not. Quite the contrary. It gives me peace of mind.

Unlike lots of aging men, I don’t get up repeatedly at night to take a whiz. Just once, usually. Sometimes not even that. My svelte body  works well — he said, as he knocks on wood, the desk I had made by carpenters years back.

This happened just once last night, about 4 a.m. Waking up at night here is interesting. There are sounds. Last night, I heard a burro bray and there were the unsettled chickens that overnight in the neighbors’ apple tree.

croissantIt’s also said we require less sleep as we age. I haven’t found that to be true. I get a good seven or eight hours as always.

Maybe my nights pass smoothly because I have a beautiful babe next to me, even if she is fretting over relatives.

Our comas end with bagels and Philadelphia cream cheese or, on special occasions, croissants and orange marmalade.

It’s a great way to return from the world of the comatose.