The boys are going through a phase, lasting about twenty-seven years now, of “needing” one of us to lie down with each of them until they fall asleep. This means that, while our progeny drift off (or not, depending on the night), uttering delirious, exhaustion-fuelled thoughts about Minecraft, The Husband and I are engaged for varying amounts of time doing something decidedly other than watching Netflix or going to sleep ourselves (my personal favourite).

TK’s psychologist helped us put together a plan for independent sleeping (ed. note–she put the plan together; we agreed with it) that we enacted a few nights ago. It has not gone well. Which is to say that while progress is being made, regrets are too. Last night, TK was particularly wound up (why we decided that this plan should coincide with the beginning of the time change due to Daylight Savings is, at best, an oversight; at worst, a mistake of epic proportions). At one point, he called out, asking me if LB was asleep yet (it should be noted that step 1 of the plan involves TH and I each lying down briefly with one of the kids, after which we’re just outside their rooms in the office/landing area, not on a plane to Myanmar like you might think from their reaction, and my stories about how my own parents would send me to my room for the night about 57 miles down the hallway from where they were do nothing to assuage their fear).

Anyway, after he called out, I answered with a “no” that was just seething enough to make TK cry, which led to an intervention being required along with attendant/effusive apologies and assurances (and enduring regret/guilt on my part; ain’t no trip like a guilt trip because a guilt trip is A REQUIRED FEATURE OF MOTHERHOOD). Eventually, with the help of TH’s patience and some melatonin, both boys were asleep and I retired to bed myself, with my guilt and book to rock me into unconsciousness.

It doesn’t help that bedtime occurs in the dark. LB’s favourite NBA poster hangs in pride of place opposite the head of his bed, in perfect viewing range to provide dream material; instead, it becomes the stuff of nightmares, as last night he told me it’s “creepy” and he “hate[s] it.” Great. It also doesn’t help that TK’s (and everyone’s) anxiety ramps up in the shadows (mine comes into its prime around 3 am; #blessed). We are waging war here not just against a routine, but against fear itself, and endless assurances as to the safety and coolness of their rooms aren’t going to just make fear disappear.

I remember our last church service in Atlanta, that Sunday before Christmas, when our pastor/friend called us by name and echoed the angel who appeared to Mary: be not afraid. I’ve been relieved to learn since then that this doesn’t have to be an imperative, not a command so much as a description of the state available to us when we trust in something bigger than ourselves, bigger even than the dark surrounding us. We can be there; we often won’t be, as the waves rock around us, but we can be. Better yet–we will be.

Rilke, whose poetry featured themes on “the difficulty of communion with the ineffable in an age of disbelief, solitude and anxiety” (so he knew), wrote, “Leave to your opinions their own quiet undisturbed development, which, like all progress, must come from deep within and cannot be pressed or hurried by anything. Everything is gestation and then bringing forth. To let each impression and each germ of a feeling come to completion wholly in itself, in the dark, in the inexpressible, beyond the reach of one’s intelligence, and await with deep humility and patience the birth-hour of a new clarity: that alone is living the artist’s life: in understanding as in creating.”

Which is to say a couple of things, to me at least: that the scariest part of the dark is feeling alone in it; and, that this is all totally necessary if anything new or real is going to happen.

This morning, the rain kindly abated (despite the 100% forecast) for my swim, but the wind and waves most certainly did not. I approached the water, cap and goggles in hand, muttering “oh she’s angry today” because sometimes jokes/talking to yourself are necessary when you’re a bit afraid. I took the plunge, which always happens whether I choose it or not, and started paddling. At one point I gulped a mouthful of sea water and almost barfed. Trust me when I tell you I stayed close to the shore–oh I hugged that bitch. The waves threw me around the whole time–until they threw me to the shore, and I was home. Which is what always happens.