Early

There are times when I wake up very early and my mind begins to work. I begin to list things undone, concerns unresolved, to plan logistics and polish old stones and second guess when part of me knows I'd be better served by another hour or so of rest.

The solution, such as it is, is to get up, make coffee, read, and impose some order on my thoughts instead of letting them run amok.

And so I unpack my head. The psychoprofessionalbabbler in me points out that waking up early is a symptom of anxiety. My prefrontal cortex points out that I was recently on Eastern Standard Time and that I don't usually transition well from time zone to time zone, easily defaulting to the earlier one. When I was in Marin County a few years ago I found it impossible not to awaken at 5 a.m., even though we stayed up late and sleeping in was the rational thing to do. Desirable. Enjoyable, even.

Money. Another trip to Baltimore. More money. How is Walker going to get to work if I see clients and then rehearse with Will for the benefit we're doing? Is Mom really on Hospice's mythical 6 month slide toward home? I have learned not to trust predictions of mortality and yet she's clearly weaker and weaker. Is it acceptable to hope that her end is near? Chris told me the other day that I'm a good son, but it feels like I don't give her enough of my time, and simultaneously it feels as though she's already gone. Student financial aid forms and Caitlin's tuition. Jeff's birthday party Saturday night will be important to attend. Robyn will be gone on a well deserved girl's weekend so how can I go when I'll already have been gone all day? Money. I need a work out. My son went out to supper with an inspirational speaker from the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Am I going to have to hire a deprogrammer? What if he becomes all Fundementalist and Inspirational? Euthanasia? Not for Mom, mind you! I enjoyed a regular evening dosage of Scotch in Baltimore. Moderation dictates I go without alcohol for a while. In fact, my cortex points out, the temporary (I assure myself) increase in dosage may account for some of this funk. On the other hand, an early morning Scotch. . . No! No! No! Change the brake light bulb on the Rabbit. Replace the parking light assembly on the Honda. Fix the leaky plumbing in the dining room ceiling, although the hole in the ceiling and the glass underneath to catch the drips have become a permanent part of our decor. Scrape the driveway down to the pavement before the next snow. Call the eye doctor to see if my new glasses came in at 4 then race to get them before 5 because I can't get them Saturday. I have to see clients. But not until 11 so I guess I could squeeze it in. God, I can't wait for my new glasses. The old ones have me cross eyed. Not my best look. Robyn looks so sweet. I wonder if I just tickled her a little. . . . Moving from euthanasia to suicide, eh?

Coffee, the New Yorker and New Republic slowly fill my mind with orderly, reasoned discussions of events. After a while, Robyn stirs, never knowing how close to an amorous assault from an early morning drinker she came. One more trip to Maryland next week and my travel adventuring will be over for the foreseeable future. An amazing number of the things I need to do I will do, each in its time, I suppose.

I trained some young people this week and they seemed to really enjoy it. The looked at me the way young adults sometimes do, as though I was wise and eloquent and responsible. I appeared to have negotiated my rites of passage, to have mastered the secret handshake, to have taken on the mantle of responsible adulthood. I was glib, entertaining, informative and highly caffeinated. That was a good day.

Which is real? Rolling around in bed careening through mental chaos me or eloquent, informative (almost Fellowship of Christian Athletes inspirational) me?

Yes and no.