GIGGLES IN MY SLEEP

It is about 8.30pm on a quiet weeknight. My boy’s in bed, his father away on work, the clothes’ dryer is humming downstairs, I’m lying in bed listening to music and reading a book, my ideal evening home. Then the floor boards creak and the bedroom door opens. For a second there, my heart jumps. I raise my head and look to the door but see no one as it swings back shut. I hear more creaking. It’s the floor boards in my room but I am not alarmed. Instead I wait for the little voice. Sure enough, a little head peeks over the bedboard and a little voice whispers, “Mum, can I sweep (sic) with you?” Even before I can say yes, he is clamouring onto the bed, diving under the duvet and working his way up to the pillow. His head pops out. Again, that urgent request, “Mum, can I sweep with you?” Big eyes imploring me to say yes. “Why?” I ask. “There’s a monster in my bedroom.” “Tell it to go away to its own bedroom,” I reply. “No. I want to sweep with you. Pweeze!” More big eyes. “Ok,” I say, closing my book and getting up to turn the light off, “but you must sleep.” “Thanks, Mum.” He lies down, then begins to fidget. This way and that. A knee then a sharp little elbow find my rib cage, then a foot on my chest, then strangely, a knee again, then quiet. A few moments pass. Then the fidgeting begins again. “Stop wiggling and go to sleep!” I whisper urgently. “I can’t. I’m too scared.” I scoot to the edge of the bed hoping that the increased space will afford him some comfort. He follows me and I feel his breath on my forehead. His cold nose travels down the side of my face until he nestles on my neck. But that’s not quite it. more fidgeting. More elbows. Then I say to him, “Hold my hand”. He clutches it, first with one little palm, then the other. Soon he is hugging my arm. It is an awkward hold and I want to pull my arm away immediately but he has settled down. Within minutes, I hear that deep rhythmic breathing that only sleep can induce. I try to move my arm but he clutches it even harder, wrapping his legs around it. I shift my weight and find a more comfortable position. I can see the outline of his face in the darkness. The distressed look that haunted it when he came in has been replaced by a peaceful angelic half smile. I marvel at how content he looks. Later in the night, I will be woken up by the sound of laughter. I will look to my side and see him laughing in his sleep and again, I will be awestruck, and a little envious. I will wish that I could still find things funny enough to burst into peels of laughter every day and have enough laughter left over for night time. I will wonder if I too used to laugh in my sleep, and when I stopped. Miguel Ruiz, in The Four Agreements writes that when we arrive here as children, we are wild, as yet untamed, living completely in the Now and finding pleasure in all we do, in all we see, in who we are. As we become ‘domesticated’ by our parents, our society, our environment, we lose that connection with the Now. We begin to accept what others say of us, we want to conform, we want acceptance and so we shun any deviance from social norms – at least to the extent that the deviance makes us unacceptable. That makes me think about the idea of Enlightenment. Of course there are as many definitions as there are teachers of Enlightenment but all of them seem to agree on one thing – that enlightenment has, as one of its components, that ability to be fully in the Now. I just wonder though, can one experience that joy, that peace, that contentment and be a mum with a little kid, with a fledgling business, with chores, and dinners to prepare? Is that peace of mind available to the man with bills to pay, a work deadline, a project to chase, a business to run and kids to tuck into bed before finding the energy to engage with his wife? Or is it the preserve of single hermit-like, dhoti-clad, kid free men and women? Later, I will pick my son up and return him to his bed. He will wrap his little arms around my neck and murmur, “Sorry, mummy”. Bewildered, I will whisper that there is nothing to be sorry for but as I come back to my bed, I will wonder whether he was apologising or expressing his sympathy that I have forgotten how to laugh like that. Right now, I just want to capture that contented look and hope that if I can burn it in my brain, then somehow, I can find such contentment too. THOUGHT FOR THE DAY ““Later, people would occasionally come up to me and say: “I want what you have got. Can you give it [that strong, almost palpable undercurrent of peace] to me or show me how to get it?” And I would say: “You just can’t feel it because your mind is making too much noise.”” – Eckhart Tolle, The Power of Now (c) Renee Ngamau