Mindful at Midnight

Once again I’m sitting here as the clock nears midnight. I was yawning heavily earlier but now, after having cleaned the kitchen sleep is elusive. Why is it that here lately my mind goes into hyper drive at late hours?

With the exception of the radio playing in the other room, the house is quiet. My son long ago called it a night, he does still work and that alarm will sound soon enough for him. Bella has gone into the other room and probably has taken over the side of the bed. Once I do go to bed, she will move to the foot. My attempts at getting comfortable annoying her.

 What is it about the night that allows the mind to wander to different places? What magic comes as the night moves toward the witching hour? What stories does the mind recall, or create in the whispers of the dark? Does one muse find the late or rather early hour the perfect hour for creating? Does the imagination prefer the night to come out and play?


I remember in my early teens a girl that I wanted to believe a friend, had me believing that ghosts of dead relatives wanted me to give her things. Recognized now as bullying and extortion but not then. Mostly school supplies, some snacks. All these years later, I don’t recall the entire list. I do recall the sheer terror I felt every night when it came time to go to bed. I fully believed that those spirits were going to come for me in the night. I never knew, which would be my last night. The last time I would go to sleep, and never awaken. 

Years later I ran across her in a local store and I mentioned that to her. She claimed it was all a joke and she thought I knew that. Um, no. I never saw her again. I did hear that her life did not go well. I feel badly about that and hope that was incorrect, but I’ll probably never know.

 Night time, can be such a peaceful, quiet, healing time, if allowed to be. Last summer I sat out back near a small fire in a store bought fire pit and watched the flames while listening to the sounds around me. The night birds, the bull frog down at the pond, the possum and racoon who came to see what was going on. And for all the world what sounded like a drunk deer crashing through the woods.

I could hear the neighbors talking, the people on four wheelers down at the far end of the dirt road, an occasional plane overhead. Mostly, I listened to my breathing and thoughts as I gently pushed the swing I sat in, enjoying the night air and watching the lightening bugs dance among the trees. 

I spent one summer as a teenager sitting up late at night writing really odd fantasy fiction stories that I would share with a school friend who was doing the same. We were the typical teen girl, writing typical teen girl fantasies. I’m glad those no longer exist. But they were fun at the time. 

Now, I’m sitting here, minutes away from midnight, letting my mind wander where it will, hoping it will tire itself out.Hoping that when I do call it a night, sleep will come readily.

If it were warmer, I would go sit out on the porch and listen as the occasional vehicle passes by on the main road, or the neighbors late night jam sessions. But its still way too cold for that, and I don’t currently hear anything coming from down their way.

 I need to write my contribution for the writer’s group, but I have to look for the prompts and right now, that’s more work than I care to attempt. 

Even the string of solar lights on the table beside me have given up for the night. Of course they only get a limited amount of sunlight each day so, their strength is weak at best. Sort of like mine right now.Guess I’ll give it up and try to sleep. Perchance to dream.

About rebecca s revels

A writer, a photographer, a cancer survivor. An adventurer of the mild kind, a lover of the simple pleasures such as long walks and chocolate. A Christian unashamed of my faith and a friend who is dependable and will encourage readily. Author of three self published books with more waiting to find their way to paper. An advocate of good things, a fighter against wrongs.
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