Notes from Pillow Hill

I am writing this under a spell of sorts, that lovely little space of not-quite-conscious in the wake of an afternoon nap. I seldom succeed in napping -- I am the type of person who too-greedily enjoys the spectacle of broad daylight, doesn’t want to miss a thing, and is always in motion -- and I consider it quite an achievement to have nodded off at 2 p.m. In fact, taking a nap in this bright sun-filled room with its big un-curtained windows requires a real sense of commitment. I did not accidentally slip into sleep. I lay down, placed a cold compress over my eyes, and approached the task with discipline and deliberation. I allowed nothing todistract me, indulged no impulses, pushed aside the usual anxieties with great force of will, and sailed off. It was not so much a matter of taking a nap as accomplishing one. And it was delicious.

MaybeI’m a little like those folks the The Onion calls Obama-zombies succumbing at last to that post-election awareness of my existential emptiness. Maybe weeks of fitful nights have simply taken their toll. Maybe I’m still tired from that symbolic hike I took up to Gaviota Peak the day after the election or my brisker-than-usual bike ride this morning. Or maybe sometimes a person just needs to shut down. You can only handle so much input, after all. Today alone: deepening recession, 1.2 million U.S. jobs lost, crisis in the Congo, a school collapse in Haiti...The worries of the world, like the contents of Pandora's box, rush in through any aperture. Someone with the luxury of hitting the pause button for a brief drift into sleep would be foolish not to do so.

I even dreamed. I dreamed that I was playing with my friends, playing in the waya ten-year-old plays, or the way we played when our daughter was a funny little girl whose giggles were like music. In my dream, Donna Sue was there, and her kids, and Monte too, and we were all running around the house, hiding and surprising each other, taking turns declaring victory, giddy with laughter.When I half woke up I thought about my brother Eddie and how he used to tease me and tickle me and chase me around, how I loved to provoke him and keep coming back for more. Eddie understood pure silliness like no one else. (He was good at shadow pictures, too, as well as dirt bombs, snowballs, and water balloons, not to mention time machines, space ships, hilarious impersonations, and melted crayon painting.)

In my dreamy state I pondered the idea of play and I wondered when it had vanished from my life. Play, not exercise. Rambunctious frolicking. I guess it isn’t what grown-ups do. But a little morel ight-heartedness would certainly be nice. Might even energize the base of me. (If I were a sociologist, I think I’d like to find a way to measure playfulness and take a look at its effects upon well-being.) 

Truth is, I do get a little too earnest and intense sometimes. I can see that now from my vantage point on Pillow Hill in the land of Counterpane. (A nod to Robert Louis Stevenson, who clearly understood the need to let his imagination wander off now and then.) 

I read somewhere that in a congratulatory call to Obama, Bush told him to "have fun" as president. If true, it certainly is revealing. That eight-year nightmare we've been going through? Heck, he was just having fun being the decider. But we won't let Bush give fun a bad name. 

Anyway, playfulness is something else entirely. 

And here in this post-nap, sunshine-filled room I remember that a new era is beginning --or at least we're gonna give it our best try. (And I hope the Obamas' daughters find a dog as delightful as the one we used to have, because nobody is better qualified than a dog to keep playfulness alive.)

Suddenly I feel a resolution coming on. I shall try to approach life a bit more...playfully. 

Then, still emerging from my nap, my pillowed head filled with the residue of that silly dream, Iallow myself to float free for a while, and I feel an odd sense of myself asa child again, just a being filled with light, suspended in a now.