Awake but Asleep
“I’ve gone to sleep, but I’m wide awake.” The book I’m reading hits the table top with a gentle thunk. I play it like a refrain for a few moments, “Awake, but asleep.” It’s about how to create a daily writing habit. An accusation forms, rolling up from my subconscious, louder like an oncoming thunderstorm or subway train approaching the station. You just don’t care enough.
I stare out the window for a bit. A sliver of the Manatee river shines past cabins, trailers and palm trees where it reflects the sky. This morning I got up after five, showered and drove to the coffee shop. Grabbing a cup of coffee, I sat down and read a memoir by Daniel Nayeri, a poem by Wendell Berry, and the how-to book I just dropped.
I’m about to pick up my pen and write a few words. But lately writing has felt mechanical. I wish I felt a strong pull or push toward my morning ritual. By 8:30 or 9AM, I’ll have planned my day of technical work and my mind will be elsewhere. But now I wonder if the words I’m about to write will mean something to someone other than myself.
Looking over my own shoulder, I see curiosity and impatience both beginning to pull at me. Why can’t this guy just get on with it, write something great, start a company, work harder, longer, or make more sense of his life? Maybe even make more money—while he’s at it.
There it is: pressure. That’s familiar. The tension in my chest and stomach, wanting to hold my breath. A feeling of impending disappointment lurking behind a closed door somewhere.
Leaning back in my chair, I let out a sigh. Behind me I hear the high-pressure sigh of steam being forced through milk, creating froth for cappuccino. Just breathe. Relax! The blender whines and clatters as one of the baristas expertly prepares an icy-sweet drink for someone who wishes they liked coffee. Does the barista wish she were somewhere else, someone else? I wish I was more of who I could be—should be.
But now I’m sitting here wishing my life away, ignoring the mundane-but-beautiful gift of this concrete moment. Simple, predictable, and pleasant. It’s invisible. My life is comfortable enough to include boredom. A recent news broadcast discussed the ongoing wars in Ukraine and Palestine. In Mariupol there’s a dad just like me, worried and fearful, trying to cope and show up for work today. In Gaza City, another dad wonders where he will find his family’s next meal. Both of them glance skyward and worry that a bomb-carrying missile falling at 20,000 miles-per-hour might kill their loved ones in their sleep.
Maybe I’m not asleep, but I’m dozing. I’m complacent. Locked into my tiny private concerns, unable to see the wide world beyond and how unusual it is to have the abundance of goodness I experience in each normal, boring day of my life. Shaking off the drowsiness, I can see I need to wake up to contentment, not passivity. Coffee, good books, pen, paper, computer, chair, and a working mind: these are enough. Especially when I’m surrounded by the love of family, friends, and an ever-present God who walks with me through the common details of my day.
Emmanuel, shake me awake into a life of alert contentment.
