Time Will Come Good — Writing My World

I am at an age when insomnia can periodically interrupt a good night’s sleep. It often plagues me during a full moon which is problematic when we are on the plateau. A curtain-less window allows moonlight to spill across our bed cleverly mimicking the morning light. Normally, I take these episodes in stride. I get up to read, meditate, or often do both. Usually that works, because when I return to bed, I fall asleep. However, this past weekend I simply ran out of remedies and found myself in despair on the third night of midnight ramblings.

I crawled back into bed hoping its soft warmth would lull me to sleep, but my chest felt tight and anxious. Out of desperation I woke John up and wailed that I simply couldn’t take another sleepless night. He solicitously said, “Come here.” I wriggled over and buried my face in his chest. Suddenly the floodgates burst, and I began a gulping, gasping, messy cry. This sudden flood of tears seemed to come from some deep, sorrowful place inside of me. My whole body heaved in a torrent of sadness. As I wailed into John’s comforting warmth all the angst, worry, and fear I felt for our world and the Ukrainian people came pouring out.

John held me until my sobs turned into sniffles and, I fell into a restless, dream filled sleep. I dreamt I was a young mother again and my adult children were small. We were staying somewhere unfamiliar, and I learned that a wild bear was wandering about. I was desperately trying to find a safe spot for us and warn John of the danger when I awoke from my nightmare. I generally don’t remember my dreams well, but the symbolism of this one was not lost on me.

In an effort to wash the horrid dream away, I began thinking about the our little moss garden. It was just outside our bedroom window where I worked on it the day before. A few days ago our friend Paul, who we affectionately refer to as “Moss Man,” came by to give us advice.. Paul is a moss and plant expert who is well known in Nashville. His “moss lawn” has been featured on local gardening shows and in articles on gardening. I learned from Paul that moss loves “crappy” soil and the poorer the soil the better. Our little spot was perfect, as we already had several species of moss growing there and not much else. Paul suggested that we forage in the surrounding forest and find species that we would like to transplant there. Then, we could use a flat trowel to carefully peel away a small section about the size of a small plate. Before transplanting, we simply rough up the soil and then lightly pat the moss down. He cautioned us to be patient because moss grows “sloooooow.” Finally, he advised us to keep the leaf litter off the moss and weed out the grasses because “moss does not like competition.”

As I lay in our bed remembering all Paul’s advice, I wondered if I might apply those same directives to my life. Like the moss, I find myself living in “crappy” soil. Our world is in such a mess…wars, climate disaster, and political disfunction. Yet, if I forage perhaps I will find other things to fill my dark and barren spaces. Couldn’t poetry, the company of good friends, and prayer nurture me? Yet, I would also need to be vigilant and weed away the litter of sensational news. Stay informed but not to the point of being overwhelmed as I was the night before. Finally, I must be patient and generous with myself as well as others. Perhaps eventually I, too, might slowly begin to flourish and find hope again.

I love the poetry of John O’Donohue and will leave you with his beautiful, thoughtful words…

If you remain generous,

Time will come good,

And you will find your feet

Again on fresh pastures of promise,

Where the air will be kind

And blushed with beginning

“This is the Time to Be Slow” by J. O’Donohue