I used to wear pretty things to bed, and then one day I didn’t. Silky nightgowns or pj sets made me feel beautiful when crawling in for a nightly slumber. Closing my eyes beneath the stars was my time for renewal. Awaking to each sunrise with messy sleep hair and embraced in feelings of luxurious, somehow intoxicated my spirit in gratitude for having a beautiful start to each day.
Soon after wearing the pretty things to bed, they began to become unnoticed. Taken for granted. Stress and the ebb and flow of daily tasks, started to affect my nightly mood. Pretty things were replaced with old t-shirts and boxer-style shorts. What once was a lamp-lit book reading safe haven, become an iphone lit search for anything in the abyss- bed.
The softness had faded. Smiling at the thought of dreaming bigger and rejuvenating sleep, turned to worry of getting through the night. To-do’s, drama of social influence, and bitterness started appearing as nightly task lists.
Ease of evenings disappeared. One day I was pretty in pink, until all the sudden I wasn’t. I did not see the change, because I it was slight. It was not abrupt. I didn’t run into a wall or fall down and see a bruise. It had all just faded over time.
At first I thought it was because someone else had stopped noticing my pretty. But no, it occurred I had stopped noticing my pretty. I had stopped pillow talk of dreams and looking up into the stars and believing in myself. Sleep had turned from grace to something I needed to function the next day.
I grew tired. I grew weak. I hardened. I adapted to a new environment. The joy of sleep wore on my face in the form of dark circles form tossing and turning. It became work to go to bed and work to get out of bed. Restless nights were a dime a dozen.
My bones were ready for each day, yet my soul was not. And there is not enough botox in the world that can mask a tired soul.
I needed to return to pretty. To the little things that provided joy in each evening. To be and give the best of me, I needed to put the phone and laptop down and return to turning on the lamp. Even if that meant buying a new lamp. Perhaps a new mug to sip some tea, and a new something pretty to slip on each night. And just maybe a robe for morning sunrise coffee.
I had to choose to let go of thoughts or comments about always wearing “something nice”, and get back to simply “Wo” not “Worry”. Sleep was the nightly moment to float among clouds to lift my spirits and align my being.
As I have a choice in how I sleep, you do to.
Do we continue feeling raggedy-and disheveled, or return to the art of sleeping?
Sleep is exaclty what you make it.
As Shakespeare said,
“Let her sleep, because when she wakes, she will move mountains.”