Nights and Morning

There are evenings designed for grand movies; a long look at a dripping sunset from the startling vantage point of a yacht in the Aegean, a cliff top Andalusian village, a terraced cafe in Stockholm.

There are nights of excess indulging in "boat" lamb sandwiches at 5am in Reykjavik, shots of Jagaermister at an underwear fashion show at 2am in Ostermalm, a swim in Lake Washington at 4am with pancakes at Beth's after.

There are nights of connection, welcoming the sunrise in Seabrook, sauna and skinny dipping in the Baltic at the dawn of the endless summer, finding relief after the 130 degree heat wave knee deep off the beach in Bodrun talking radiohead and the cultural paradigm of youth.

There are mornings designed for quiet books; mornings of walking to Haystack Rock before breakfast, of looking at the light dancing in the forest out my window, of waking perched on a narrow ledge above the Pacific surrounded by redwoods older than time.

There are formal mornings of presentations with impressive panels, wandering amidst the Goya and El Greco at the Prado, or arriving in the mist of Grenada, catching a plane to a fresh adventure along Lake Geneva. There are many other mornings of isolation at work, hoping to be downsized just to end the dread. There are so many mornings where alarm clocks blend into my sleep and where, before guilt over the late time stabs me over and over, I feel rested.

And there are nights like tonight where I crave the most mundane and important thing I can think of... a hug; preferably one that lasts till dawn. A night where I sleep with a touch that teaches my body, my mind, my heart, to know that all will be well when morning comes.

Until then, I will be thankful for prescriptions to turn my brain mostly off so I can sleep and to turn it back on in the morning so I can survive the isolation of another day.