Sleep Story

Even as a very small child, I struggled with insomnia. I clearly remember my mother quietly opening the bedroom door late at night to check on us before she went to bed. My cheerful “Hi, Mom” coming out from the darkness would make her jump and exclaim, “What are you still doing awake?” I didn’t have an explanation. I would lay there in the dark, not even drowsy, while my brother and sister blissfully slumbered. I watched the crack of light under the door. As long as that crack of light was there, I was content. It meant that my parents were awake and I wasn’t alone. Once the crack vanished, it was going to be a long night.

Thankfully, my sleeplessness is no longer an every-night kind of thing. I occasionally “treat” myself to a Gravol, which usually puts me under and keeps me there until morning. I try not to rely on it. But sometimes, desperate times call for desperate measures.

When I was working and chained to the alarm, sleeplessness could be a real source of anxiety. It takes a lot of energy to teach a pile of rambunctious kindergarten students. Three hours of sleep just doesn’t cut it. How well I remember that last teaching block of the day after a terrible night’s sleep, that heavy feeling of trying to walk through wet cement. I’d be stifling yawns in the coat room during the most hectic time of the day–getting the kids into their winter outerwear and packing backpacks for dismissal. That is an Olympic event, times five per week. Running on little sleep, the recipe was an utter flop.

Now that I’m retired, at least the pressure to sleep is gone. Still, life is busy and full and I would prefer to sleep at night. For all my adult life, I have always had this fantasy of being a morning person. I know so many of them. They see sunrises and go for early morning walks or do some yoga. They do dinner prep. They get things done before 9:00. They go to bed early and sleep like babies.

I’ve tried many things in my efforts not to become addicted to Gravol: music, podcasts, reading, white noise, cold air, meditation, focused breathing. All of those things failed last night. I scrolled through Spotify and found something on “Get Sleepy” with the heading “Bedtime Story for Adults.” At first, I was dubious, thinking that kind of thing generally didn’t tend to make a person feel sleepy, but the title was misleading. The description of the story centered around a sweet lady named Lily who owned a cozy bake shop.

Just the ticket, I thought. I snuggled into my pillow and closed my eyes as the calm voice with a British accent attempted to lure me into REM.

An agent once wrote to me in an email that the novel I had submitted for her consideration was “too quiet.” As it was about a little boy struggling to live in the aftermath of a school shooting that killed his teacher and entire class, I found that comment kind of surprising. But last night, as I listened to the story of Lily rising from her restful slumber to enjoy her morning cup of tea, then opening her umbrella as she walked through a gentle rain to her bakery, the agent’s comment started to make sense. Because as Lily put her wet umbrella in the stand, got the oven heating, and turned on all the twinkle lights in her dining area, I was starting to become hooked. Once she started sprinkling cinnamon on her dough and mixing the batter for her raspberry cream muffins, I was completely reeled in. Then, her regulars trickled in from the rain for their treats. There were brownies. Which were Lily’s specialty. And I was supposed to sleep through that? This was my favourite kind of story! I was awake for the rest of Lily’s day, right beside her when she enjoyed her hearty supper at home and then started to feel her eyes getting heavy. Lily went to bed. There was rain on her roof. Off to dreamland she went. But I was wide awake.

The Spotify link to other riveting adult bedtime stories like these is https://open.spotify.com/show/OedOBjruWV6Juxf42WjGxw

Get sleepy. Or, if you’re like me, find your second wind at 3:00 a.m.

If you would like to read more by me, I hope you will check out my book Corners now available to order in print and as an eBook!

Trust Cake

I’ve been retired for a month now, and I think I have a bit of an issue with Retirement Attention Deficit Disorder. I’ve left a lot of pots on a lot of back burners for a lot of years…and they are all threatening to boil over. I don’t know which one to stir first. And I don’t want to turn the heat down on any of them–they are all far too important.

After the frenetic pace of teaching kindergarten, it is a real challenge to change gears. I confess that I have not been too successful with that. After a brief interlude at a cottage and some beach time, I came home and rolled up my sleeves. I’ve been gardening, making jam, hanging laundry and gutting the basement ever since. I’m also taking an oils class and trying to write a “cozy” mystery. (More on that later.) The other day, I had to reluctantly concede that I needed a day to do absolutely nothing. After all, isn’t it an imperial rule to SLOW DOWN in retirement? I almost had to duct-tape myself to the back yard lounge chair. I had my journal and my Kobo and my phone (for mindless bouts of Bejeweled Blitz), but even with these lovely distractions, I kept thinking of all the things I could be accomplishing in the house and (sigh) down in the basement. My resolve was firm. I stayed in that chair, only getting out to shower and paint my toenails and get into a pretty dress. My dear friend Lucy and I were headed out to dinner and a theatre production that evening.

Our dinner reservations were at the Windjammer Inn in Port Stanley. We sat inside, enjoying our wine and our fresh fish entrees. For dessert (which I don’t usually order, but it was a dessert kind of night), I chose a flour-less chocolate cake while Lucy decided on a slice of buttermilk cake. Our desserts were beautifully presented and equally enjoyed. I did glance at Lucy’s cake, and I remarked, “I could probably make that.” It had the texture of a coffee cake, with berries baked in.

This morning, I decided it was time to take up the challenge to myself and make a buttermilk cake. My first step in baking or cooking these days is usually to grab my phone and open the Google app. But, I had this thought: “You don’t need a recipe. You know how to do this.”

It’s true. I’m not going to impress Gordon Ramsay or anything, but I certainly know what goes into a cake and what the batter is supposed to look and taste like. I squirted some lemon juice into a measuring cup and filled it up the rest of the way with milk. Left to sit for a few minutes, that would be my “buttermilk.” I cracked some eggs, melted some butter, tossed in some sugar. Dash of salt, some baking soda and powder, “enough” flour and a jigger of almond extract. I had fresh berries and peaches on hand. I added, stirred, tasted, added a bit more…and there was the batter. I sugared the berries and sliced the peaches, greased my pan, and made my layers. Into the oven it went. And it promptly started to rise, quite pleasantly and most appropriately. I used some of my homemade raspberry jam to prepare a reduction.

As the cake baked, I decided that I would call it my “Trust Cake.” To create it, I trusted my experience and know-how and instincts. I trusted my senses (sight, smell, taste) to guide me. I trusted that I had everything I needed, already stocked in the fridge and pantry, and that if something was missing, I would make the right improvisations (in this case, the lack of vanilla extract prompted me to try the almond).

And doesn’t this simple little truth open the door to a much larger one? I don’t need a recipe for being newly retired. I can allow my experience and instinct to guide me along to whatever adventures await–whether I am painting, organizing, writing, singing, learning new yoga poses, traveling, playing the piano (or–here’s a thought: the cello), becoming a grandmother (not holding my breath), volunteering…(all those back burners). I have the confidence and the maturity to judge and to weigh and to balance, whatever I decide. And if something doesn’t go exactly according to plan, I can still make it second-helping perfect.

Not that I had a second helping.