For a long time, certainly months if not years, I have been sleeping poorly. I fall asleep easily, early, but wake up throughout the night, sometimes for hours. Sometimes I don’t get back to sleep.
I’ve put it down to worry, about my failed marriage, about my work, about my stresses. I’ve known it was a physiological result from drinking alcohol. At times it was definitely from sleeping in a strange bed on work trips.
Often I would lie in bed allowing the thoughts to come, solving the problems at work, or having the difficult conversations in my mind. Or I would deliberately channel my thoughts into something less distressing, an image of a piece of paper blowing through deserted city streets.
Sometimes I would turn the TV on low and ignore it as I tried to get back to sleep, or I would pick up my phone and surf the internet.
I often thought about getting up and using the extra time for something productive, but what? There was an idea whispering in the back of my mind, but I was tired. I wanted to sleep.
Eventually I realised that I remained functional, no matter how much sleep I got. I was as functional as I needed to be to perform my job well, do a perfunctory routine at the gym, and feed and clean myself. Then fall asleep on the sofa, too early.
I decided to meditate during those dark hours. At first, it was hard. My focus was terrible, my energy murky and my chakras blocked, but I persevered, and gradually began to clean and polish my neglected soul.
Then, one Friday morning, I was freed from my job.
I had enjoyed my job and I was good at it, but it had taken a lot of effort and learning to be good. I presented myself in a particular way to leave no room for harassment within the very masculine industry. I moulded my behaviour to so my stakeholders would be at ease in my presence and have confidence in my work.
I enjoyed the challenges, and the money, and would never have chosen to leave, but deep down I knew this rigid professional exterior wasn’t me.
Since broken feet ended my tango career 12 years ago, I’ve been aimless. I’ve fallen from one job into the next, pursuing small goals: a certificate, a diploma, a promotion, until I found myself in that very technical career. I’ve missed passionately pursuing a vision like I did the moment I discovered tango 20 years ago, and saw myself doing all the things I eventually did.
A week after my job ended, a chance encounter in a cocktail lounge in Beijing unlocked a new vision. A stranger said that he would be interested in reading my stories.
The stranger’s words were a key, which opened the door to a room full of treasures I have been collecting my whole life.
This room contains the lessons on writing and editing from Mrs Murray in 5th grade; the stories I’ve never told anyone because I’ve never thought anyone was interested in anything I had to say. There is a wacky collection of spirituality and science and empathy and the books I’ve read, and my longing to experience life from somewhere other than the window of an office.
Two nights after this room was unlocked, I again woke up after two hours’ sleep. This time, I picked up my phone and began to write a story, which I finished on the five hour train journey to Suzhou. I wrote a poem that night and then more stories and poems. And now I have a practice. A habit of writing.
There is so much to learn, but there are many things to write. I have the permission, from a stranger, from myself, to do so.
Satisfied I had finally started listening to that whispering voice, my muse is now letting me sleep again.
Mostly.
Sarah Bonnar 