8 Hours Sleeping, 16 Hours Dreaming

I had a rough time waking up today. The kids' voices seemed a little more high-pitched, the pat-a-tat-tatting of Gracie's ears a little louder, and my eyes seemed a little bit heavier. I slept so soundly all night, just enough chill in the air to compel me to roll over again and pull the covers up to my chin. Why was I so tired?

I realized that, for the first time in months, the exhaustion didn't come from dreading the day. It didn't come from that little place of despair inside of me that spoke about the tragedy of the past few months. It didn't come from disliking work, dreading making lunches again. It came from none of that.

I was exhausted this morning because I earned it. I stayed out until 1am on Monday, woke at 6am, worked a full day, and after work, cleared out the weeds in my front garden and trimmed all the plants while entertaining the kids, speaking with the neighbors and throwing a stick to Gracie, Rocky and Murphy (the neighbors' dogs, who adore my house as much as they adore their own). I was physically and mentally worn down, but spiritually peaking.

So when Tony came in this morning, rubbing my back (as I taught them to do upon waking someone) and said, "Why are you sleeping so much?", my reaction was to smile. I smiled because it was the first morning in a long line of mornings that didn't give me the thought that I had to shut out the pain again. The pain is there, it will always be there. But I only have one life to live, and live it I must, and be as grateful for the chill in the air on a Wednesday morning, and be grateful that I have the long weekend (Fri-Mon) to spend outside with the kids, the dogs, the plants, the sunshine and the stereo blasting some great flippin' music. And I hope to wake up exhausted like this all weekend.