From Two In The Morning (Maybe Earlier)

Two in the morning. That's when I've been waking. I go to bed at nine, read for half an hour, shut out the light, fall asleep around ten, and need at least six but more like eight or nine hours of sleep. Instead I get four and a half, my body coming awake right around two, something wrong. Anxious dreams of school, my dead father, being lost and having no home, pull me out of sleep right around two in the morning. I'm still tired but my body says that it will not rest. It cramps, aches, moves, shifts, turns, flops, wrestles, clenches, and sends out signals via a tightening of my calf, an alarm from my bladder, a flexing of my shoulders and neck. Two in the morning I'm so tired and so awake.

I get up, use the bathroom, then come back to bed, quietly, trying not to disturb my wife who has her own troubles with sleep. Some nights she is simply up until two, three, four in the morning because her brain won't let her sleep. An inherited trait, there's nothing much to do about it other than medicate herself into slumber, something about which she's anxious and so am I. This morning she is deep in sleep as I return to bed, lie down, and pull the blanket up around me. I shouldn't bother even trying to go back to sleep. I can tell my night is over. It's nearly two-thirty. I give it a shot but know I'm just going to keep moving the bed and that my mind will keep moving me from sleep. I doze and wake, doze and wake. By half past three I've had enough. I push back the blankets and get out of bed.

Downstairs I make a cup of decaf then head down to the basement nook and write three pages. I check email and skim past the bad news in The New York Times and Washington Post, then give up the internet as bad business. Up in the kitchen I eat a small bowl of cereal then build a nest on the couch in the den where I sit under blankets to read Diane Ackerman's One Hundred Names For Love her story of her husband's stroke and, I hope, recovery. It reminds me over and over that we live perilously close to disaster. I read about them leaving the hospital, arriving home, practicing how to get up after a fall, enduring a speech-therapist's visit, swimming in the pool, starting at their yard in Ithaca, but then wake up with the book open on my lap and time having passed me by. Not much time. A brief snooze. A kind of nap. A snatch of rest. It is six-thirty in the morning and the room is still dark.

My wife wakes and comes down the steps. I am dozing again and wake enough to hear her but not enough to open my eyes. She pads through the living room opening blinds, shutting off the front lights. I hear her footsteps in the hall and then softly on the den carpet. I say a drowsy hello as I open my eyes and she startles, inhaling deeply, gasping really. Did she think I was dead? A bundle of blankets left on the couch? No, she hadn't even seen me and had come in merely to shut the light. She laughs in relief. I thought you were in the basement writing. I shake my head and smile. She encourages me to go up to bed. No. I'd sleep until noon up there and be up again at two the next day.

Instead I go up to shower. In the bedroom I see the full laundry basket. Take that down and wash it next, I tell myself, tossing my socks in and setting it by the bedroom door. I go into the bathroom, turn the shower to hot, strip down, hang my towel from the hook near the shower stall, set out the bathmat. When I open the door the stall is filled with steam. Ah, I whisper, and step into the warm flow of water.

There are few things so comforting as warm water all over my body. I have been known to sit in a hot tub longer than warning signs suggest. I can sit, float, swim, wade, and stand in a warm Florida pool until the exposed skin on me burns red and hot. I would bathe in our tub but it would need a heating coil to keep it from becoming a tepid pool of my own filth. I can easily imagine myself as the frog in a pot of water coming slowly to a boil. What a way to go.

In the shower I get to thinking of Aaron Sorkin. I've read that he has a spectacular shower in his office so when the writing stops, as it often does for him, he can stand in the warmth until the words come loose. I imagine him at his desk the words slowly freezing, coming to a halt in a jumble suspended in crystal lattice. Then, as the hot water and steam envelop him, all the words come unstuck and begin again to flow down the stream. Do they then go down the drain? There are parts of this I haven't worked out fully.

Next I recall the first place in which the shower was a haven. My first year at Clarkson where, in Ross Hall, the showers in the common bathroom were not confined to individual stalls or separated by partitions but consisted simply of four shower heads mounted on one tiled wall. I would go down there in the morning or at night after basketball, set my shave kit and clean clothes on the sill, hang my towel on a hook, and drop my dirty clothes on the floor. If someone was already in the showers, I would step gratefully into the steam, say hello, and go about my business. Sometimes the other guy was a talker and that was okay, but most guys were quiet and it was easier to enjoy the shower. If I was alone, I would crank the shower up, the water was immediately warm, and put my head under it to feel the warmth rain down.

Clarkson wasn't a good place for me, but I didn't know it all the way through. I had the feeling it was wrong and I was wrong too, but these things take a while to sink in. I want to believe that whatever is wrong is something I can fix. Sometimes it is. At Clarkson and in my current situation, it is not. I often stood under the shower, letting hot water wash over and seep into my system, feeling mysteriously better, comforted maybe, but when I shut off the water, I was back in that tiled bathroom, off of the narrow hallway, living with fifty other boys who all seemed to have figured out things which remained mysterious to me. I remember one time turning back around and going back under the shower marveling that it never ran out of hot water.

Back in our shower at home I wash my hair and rinse. I rub soap between my hands, wash my body, and rinse. The heat rises in the shower as I turn the lever farther left. I let the water run, put my head back under, stretch out my hands in the stream, turn my back to the flow, and close my eyes. If only I could sleep in here. I imagine floating in a warm pool, rocked into a deep, dreamless sleep. Shaking my head at the idea, I turn the water off, feel an immediate chill made worse by opening the shower door, and press the thick towel against my chest. I pull it up over my head, then press it with both fists against my eyes until I see stars. Drops of water fall from me and splatter against hard tile.

I dry myself and dress, bring laundry to the basement and start the washer, shave my face, address a letter to my sister-in-law and put it at the mailbox. My wife and older daughter have left for an eye appointment. My younger daughter is having breakfast. I've written whatever this might be. The house is cold. Heavy hooded sweatshirt, wool socks, and still I'm cold. I think of the shower. I dream of a hot tub. I blink slowly and feel sleepy in the back of my throat. How does that happen? How does fatigue lodge itself there. My shoulders are loose and drooping. I hold my back straight. My body is tired. My mind too. My heart and soul? I don't know about that.

Upstairs, just before coming down with the laundry, I saw that the bed was unmade, the blankets, three of them, twisted together. My pillow stuck out of the flannel case. I pulled the blankets straight on my wife's side, walked around and fixed the pillowcase, pulled the blankets from one another. I folded and tucked, smoothed with the palm of my hand. Outside I listened to the sound of a jet moving up and away, knowing it was already gone before I heard it.

I didn't give even a moment's thought to lying down, going back toward sleep. I had things to do and words on my mind. Which of the two woke me at two? I thought of Diane Ackerman's husband and how a blood clot or some other microscopic event can crash the fragile lives in which we travel through time. Whatever is waking me so early in the morning is beyond my ken, a mystery that will either continue to dog me or be washed away. It's nearly noon. I am tired, weary even, and cold.

Rest is necessary for the body and mind. I've heard of a cruel experiment in which dogs were awakened just as they were about to sleep drove them insane. As if we needed proof of something so obvious. As if such things weren't clear to everyone awake at two in the morning or standing under the warm shower waiting for answers to how to sleep through the night and live through the day.

All Of Me

In the last month and a half I've seen the dentist three times, my therapist four times, had blood work done, engaged with a new general practitioner, and been to a PT guy who does craniosacral work. I'm trying to heal myself, work toward better health, and move forward. I'm in the process of working out of a job that is crippling me, but in the meantime I'm trying to attend to much of the healthcare I've neglected for years. Thus the three trips to the dentist for cleaning, fillings, and fillings, blood work to figure out my chemistry, and a new doctor after years without one.

The doctor is the trickiest piece of this puzzle. My wife knew and recommended the dental practice. I'm grateful. They are gentle and professional. They don't hound me about flossing. They listen and haven't try to sell me a whole bunch of nonsense like a dentist I went to years ago and who turned me off to dentistry. She likes her doctor too, but I was in that practice and didn't like it because they handed out prescriptions like cereal-box toys — Collect them all!. I went in with a hurt ankle and was given a prescription for heavy-duty pain killers. I don't want this, I told them. But you said it hurt? Ugh.

I want a doctor like my craniosacral guy, Chris. I went to him to see what can be done about me clench my jaw at night. I wear a mouth guard but lately am waking myself up by clenching so hard, wearing myself out. I'm getting tired while I sleep. And the dentist is worried about my teeth. As Chris got set up, we talked about our families and he told me about thoughts and remarks he composed about his brothers after his dad died. He knows my dad died four years ago. We share that bond.

Ready to go, Chris asked me to describe what was happening. As I spoke, he sat looking up at me and he listened like there was no one else in the world. He nodded some, waited, asked questions, waited and listened to my answers, and there was suck a look of intensity in his quiet, calm eyes, that I began to feel better just being observed and heard so well. When I was done, he clapped his hands lightly together and said, this is great. He typed things into the computer and set up the bed. It's not great that you're having problems, he explained, but I'm excited about what we were going to do.

He talked about what he was going to do, explained what was happening as we began, but then we let silence fall around us as he — I can't explain this any better — cradled me and made the tiniest movements. I felt my eyes close, my breathing steady. He moved around me, asking me to relax my head into his hands, and it was a simple matter to do so. I couldn't have felt more cared for.

At the end of the session he told me about what he had felt and done, what he thought we might do next, and asked if I would like to come back again and when. We set up an appointment at the front desk. I paid and said goodbye to this man who provides me with health care, is a friend, and knows me. I've recommended half a dozen people to him and every one came away with the same two feelings I have: whatever he does works and it is such a blessing to be cared for so deeply and completely.

I don't have that feeling yet with my general practitioner. Granted, I've only been to one visit. I'll go back soon to talk about blood work, to again be pressed to have a colonoscopy, and probably be plied with pills. My doctor does not often make eye contact and doesn't hold it. Maybe we will get to know one another, but if not, I'll seek out another caregiver. I've got an example of what I want.

Years ago when my wife was pregnant with our first child, we moved from back to Syracuse and changed from midwifes to doctors for her prenatal care. lt felt very different. During one of the exams, I asked the doctor to describe the difference between the two types of practice. "Midwifes," he said, "make a list of everything that can go right and work to ensure as much of that happen as possible. Doctors make a list of everything that can go wrong and work to prevent as much of that as possible."

Maybe I need a midwife. I quit going to the doctor years ago when my doctor moved into administration and I was told to choose another doctor in that practice. I was tired of care that dealt only with what was wrong. I wanted and still want someone who will work with me to sharpen my health rather than just blunting my illnesses.

Years ago I read a Mark Bittman story in which he went to the doctor hypertensive, overweight, and pre-diabetic. He knew the prescriptions were coming. Instead, his doctor said, "become a vegan." Bittman, a food writer, said he couldn't possibly. The doctor said, "you're a smart guy. Figure it out." Bittman did figure it out. He lost weight, reduced his hypertension, and eliminated his risk of diabetes with the help of a doctor who helped him become healthy instead of just treating his sickness.

I know some of what I need do to become healthy: quit my job, walk and run, eat less sugar and more vegetables, sleep well, and savor my life. I need to see my therapist regularly. I need to write. I also need a good doctor, someone to care about all of me and not just the sick parts.

Campaigns & Barn Washings

I first wrote and published this in the summer of 2016 when the campaign for President was in full swing, when there was still hope in the air amidst the disgust of the fraction of a man the Republicans had put up as their candidate, when it seemed the United States couldn't go that far off the tracks. We know better now. Maybe I should have just moved to the country, preferably in Canada, to a beautiful place with an old barn, one in need of washing.

The piece has been updated slightly and has a fresh ending free of charge to all you who read it.

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In today’s email I received messages from Hillary Clinton’s campaign and from Mike, a man offering to wash my barn. It’s a great day to be alive.

The campaign informs me that we are not meeting fundraising goals. At my old school, I used to run candy sales and manage the money at chicken barbecues to finance trips that management had stopped supporting but were no less vital to the kids and our school. I taught English some of the time but seemed to take as much time raising money, pushing kids to sell Butterfingers and Hershey bars. In the process I may have learned all I ever need to know about running a national campaign. It mostly has to do with not hitting fundraising goals and letting everyone know how much harder they need to work. I feel the campaign's pain.

Unlike candy sales and chicken barbecues, the campaign holds less promise of adventure as payoff. I mean, we'll get Hillary Clinton as President, someone up to the job, informed, albeit part of the machine. As long as we don't get the ass-clown the Republicans are putting up, it will be worth it. But that's slim reward compared to the school fundraising. We took kids on three-day trips to a great Adirondack camp and one-day trips into Manhattan. In the mountains there were kayaks and horseshoes and campfires with s’mores. In the city kids wandered Chinatown, bought Foakleys, ate the great pizza on Earth, and had the chance to slip supervision and score some NYC weed. Hillary is nice and all, but kind of like the under-ripe peach I’m reluctantly eating as I type this. It’s not exactly bad, but I can’t get excited about it.

What I do get excited about is barn washing. I don’t own a barn or the land on which to build one. I’m a writer not a farmer, but I have read Wendell Berry and E. B. White enough that it’s time to get out of the books and into a barn. Mike, the barn-washing fellow, first contacted me while I was on vacation in Florida. He sent prices and a schedule for doing the work. I told him his prices were good so far as I could tell, but that my experience with barn washing is limited by not having a barn. There was the chance that my brother, visiting our house to tend the cats and always on the lookout for a project, might have built one out back of our house. Even so, would such a new barn already require washing? I thanked him but regrettably declined the offer.

Mike sent more email a week later. We were home by then and I looked out the back windows imagining the barn, the chickens, a pig, and a cow. But I don't know anything about tending such animals and the city zoning is pretty strict about such things, so I erased the animals and just imagined the barn which seemed a pleasant place where maybe I could set up a writing desk near a wood stove. The whole thing felt more and more appealing with each passing moment. Mike's prices in this new email were the same so I knew he was an upstanding guy. In a P.S. he wrote, “Brian, let me know if you get this email. The last time I sent it to the wrong address.” Following instructions to the letter, I wrote back saying that I had indeed gotten his email and was reconsidering the wisdom of going through life without a barn to wash.

Today’s message, Mike's third, delighted me as I had gone weeks without speaking to him and, I’ll admit, had forgotten about barns dirty or clean. Sadly though, the message was just a repeat of the the second message and included the same P.S. I imagined Mike just in from a barn washing, his wet boots left on the map by the back door. He was at the computer thinking, this time I'll get the right Brian. But no. I, however, was undaunted. I wrote back immediately: “You’ve convinced me. I’m beginning construction of a barn tomorrow. Should be ready for a wash shortly thereafter.” I tell you, I’m still excited about it. I hope Mike is as well.

The Clinton campaign needs to generate this kind of excitement. A barn! What could be more exciting? I have visions of the Amish (and Harrison Ford) coming to raise the frame. My brother and I could side and roof it. Maybe I would get that cow and pig, those chickens and learn to tend them in secret so as not to invite a code violation from the city. Still, no matter how quiet I keep things, they are bound to make a mess. Then I’ll contact Mike to see if the prices still hold and we can schedule a washing. I bet he’ll be excited too.

There's a chicken barbecue every year about this time at a church in the Valley just down from the best ice cream I’ve ever known. The Clinton people can join my brother, Mike, and me for dinner and dessert. We can talk about candy sales, class trips, and livestock while pulling that sweet chicken off the bone. Then we can get ice cream in cones and drive to my house where I'll take them out back and show them the barn. It will be freshly cleaned and Mike will accept the pats on his back and maybe engage a few more barn owners in cleanings. We can finish our ice cream cones and feel what it takes to make people excited about big projects.

I can see it all now. The August sun is shining. We're all full from chicken and ice cream. The pig has come to the edge of its pen to be scratched. There are a few eggs in the barn. The cow is ready to be milked. The night is warm and the company is good. Mike is laughing at something one of the Clinton campaign people has just said. My brother is showing another the hayloft and rope swing inside the door. I stand in the yard marveling at the barn feeling that in this America, nothing could ever go too wrong.

Somewhere far away a cheer goes up for a strange and terrible man shouting incoherently about building dirty walls instead of barns made all the more beautiful by Mike's careful washing. The campaign really needs to raise more money.

Energy & Momentum

My wife said, "I have no energy to do anything and I've felt like this for a long time." Yeah, I know that feeling. I have no energy to respond to email, to search for a different job, to clean the bathroom, to change out of pajamas and a ratty old hoodie. I don't feel like doing any of that. When my wife talked about having no energy I was sitting on the couch reading a book that is good but not pulling me along, one for which I don't have much energy to finish. All of which had me thinking of writing this down. For that I have plenty of energy.

Earlier we had talked about what I'll do for my next job. I did a lot of shrugging because I just don't know. I'll need to find a way to pay bills, but she was right in suggesting I seem to be waiting for some miracle, a $150,000 job for her or a million-dollar windfall out of the blue. I imagined money raining down from our ceiling, enough to buy healthcare, pay the bills, and set aside to get us through. Through the shower of bills I saw myself at the desk typing.

A writing career isn't made on wishes but maybe starts there. Earlier, I took down a notebook and found the entry from one year ago. It was about all I had to do before we went out of town later that day and how I had taken a pair of pants out of my bag to make way for a books and a notebook. At the end there I wrote of feeling like I was on the right track for a change. I had begun to really dig into writing.

I'm farther along that track now. Nowhere near any kind of destination but picking up speed. I'm picturing a long train of pages, cars overflowing with pens, tankers of ink, box cars full of typewriters, laptops, and reams of reams of paper. The train rumbles through the dark early morning. The crossing signal has dropped across the road blocking half four lanes of traffic each way. The people in those cars stare, wondering how long they will have to wait, worried about getting to jobs for which they have no energy. I jump out of my car, run along the tracks, grab hold of a ladder and pull. My feet leave the ground and I wonder if I can pull myself up and where where this train is headed. In the distance behind me, I hear the signal bells clanging. Up ahead the train's horn blows loud and low. I hang from the ladder listening to the rhythmic clack of the wheels and it sounds just like my fingers on the keys writing word after word after word.