The Night Sailor

I woke up at 4am this morning. 

This seems to be happening much more these days as my mind clicks on around that time, processing and parsing odd things. Occasionally my subconscious serves up a hazy solution to a problem amid the semi-waking dreamlike tumbling of images, thoughts and disjointed story lines. Often that solution is lost unless I fully commit to getting up and writing it down. I wage a small internal battle between this productive awakening and a cowardly retreat into my lair of warm sheets and blankets.

I used to marvel at my father who would keep strange hours, snoozing in the late afternoon and early evening, then disappearing into his den to spend the darkness hours in a hybrid state of awareness and drifting, the sounds of a police scanner or odd AM talk radio show crackling, murmuring and grumbling in the sleepy house. He would eventually rise and immerse himself in his writing, weaving the threads of his latest novel from his state of altered consciousness. But how could he truly rest? 

My father, the original Night Sailor, age 55

Now I find myself living a version of that nocturnal reverie with online history lectures or science podcasts as my companions, but not through conscious choice; I have simply arrived at a place where time is an ellipsis… trailing off randomly instead of following predictable pathways. Maybe it’s age, maybe a natural evolution of living life without the familiar temporal guideposts of work, kids and other  structures.

For awhile, I resisted.

But I finally figured out how to go with it — to abide with the sensations as semi-conscious visions fluttered around the edges of my mind. I seek neither to control nor organize — just observe. It’s a skill that I have found to be useful during my waking hours as well: pausing to observe rather than rushing to react. Aging seems to me an exercise in learning to accept that dreams take unexpected turns whether you’re asleep or awake. We have more control over our conscious dreams, but maybe less than we would like to think. The world is a stewpot with new ingredients being added by the cosmic chef at unexpected moments. We’re compelled to adjust our “life recipes” on the fly — changing with the seasoning. 

To best travel the uncertain path of this journey, awareness and mindfulness are the binary North Stars of our life compass. Conscious intention plots the course, equanimity steadies the ship and a lust for life makes the colors pop along the way — caring deeply yet allowing to be, inner peace and passion sharing the sacred space. It’s this sense of flow with a light hand on the tiller that best guides the dream navigator around the reefs and squalls to the safe harbor of knowing.

When I finally awaken, it’s like drifting in gentle seas. It’s a sweet meditation where thoughts arise and dissipate until one keeps knocking quietly but insistently — until I invite it in.

I want to share that particular thought with you from last night. It was no doubt given a foothold by my late evening chore of going through old books in my garage cabinets; bringing them into my home to stay forever in my luxurious indoor bookcase condos or culling them to spend purgatory at the local library — in some cases even euthanizing them to the great recycling bin beyond. It was melancholy work. All of that creation, discipline and identity threaded through old pages and bundled lovingly between the covers, in my hands.

And these were the lucky ones — the tomes that found homes. Yet there they sat before me, souls plaintively beseeching to belong and be blessed as I played St. Peter at the gate.

I thought of my current book, my first book, still in its infancy. Would it wander as an unwanted orphan in spite of all the energy expended in the birthing? Would it grow up healthy and loved? I realized I would be proud of it no matter what, yet part of my being longed for the acceptance of it — for the acceptance of me.

Acceptance.

It occurred to me as I lay in my bed, drifting over the moonless sea like my father, the night sailor, feeling the sea in his bones: Acceptance is The Grail. 

We of the tribes will always be of the tribes, eyes all about, seeking our safe place, yearning to connect, wary of the casting out. We invest all our earthly energy to belong, keeping the cold fingertips of loneliness from tracing lines up our spines, teeth bared against the fate of the exiled, the excommunicated, the outsider.

Then, in the way these twilight visions emerge and fade, I felt warmth — my bed, my wife, my home. 

Safe.  

Belonging.

I was that fortunate book, well worn, well loved, with more than my fair share of highlights etched in the margins. Some day my book and my body will be held in someone’s hands. They might reflect or silently smile at some spoken or written word that once nestled in their mind and heart long ago. But then… 

into the shimmering heart of the sea...

they will let it go.