We spend a lot of time together on the dilapidated couch snuggling beneath soft warm quilts; watching TV, reading, and writing. Orson likes to watch cat videos with T, either on T's phone or a laptop. Oskar likes to knead his nails into my skin as I brush the snarls out of his long fur. It works for everyone. Our home life is relatively calm and easy.
We also spend a lot of time in our (newly painted) periwinkle bedroom with its butter ceiling and collection of ceramic cats lining the dresser. Sleeping is my favorite. While a lot of successful people I admire claim to sleep a maximum of five hours each night (Rachel Ray, Martha Stewart, etc.) I am an eight to nine hours a night gal. I love the bliss of clean sheets and the hum of a fan. I love the intimacy of T and the boys sleeping next to me, their breathing and purrs lull me regardless of how little space Oskar leaves for me on my pillow, regardless of how hard Orson tries to push me out of bed with his sturdy legs. We slumber together and dream our dreams, and there is such peace.
Lately I've been enduring a lot of nightmares. I'm told this is pretty common right now, a brain's response to the horror of current events. Last night's dozing included visions of neglected and abused animals, a serial killer and rapist, a house fire, and a crooked cop. All in one dream! In the end I managed to catch a ride on a rhinoceros that happened to be hanging out in my backyard and we trampled the bad guys, rescued the pets, and put out the fire. If only it was that easy in waking life to put the nefarious out of commission.
Waking from a nightmare is always weird. There is the panic and adrenaline that remains from the dream and a muddled sense of "Huh?" Sometimes the bad guys lurk in the shadows, like smelly leftovers. I reach for a furry cat, for T, and for the peace that we build together. Then, back to sleep, hoping for a better dream the next time I find one.