Amy Randall-McSorley

Amy

Randall-McSorley

Oftentimes, I wake somewhere in the night, sometimes 2 a.m., sometimes 4 a.m. The invader of my slumber could be anything. Something someone said, a memory of someone I lost, a jumbling of deadlines or the nagging pain from the constant migraine or headache that has tormented me for years.

The waking is in those inconvenient hours between the commute — far after the last drive and too soon to arise and prepare for the next.

Knowing I won’t be at my best if I don’t find a way to sleep, even if just for interrupted naps, I turn to the Native American music station I favor, especially on nights like these. There is something about the rhythm of the drums and the wind song of the flutes.

I settle into the magical sound and imagine I am flying over the dessert, across the lakes and above the forests. My thoughts transition into dreams as I fall to sleep once more. The flute inspires my flight as I find freedom from the things that cause me worry and sadness. I become lost in the night sky and overcome by a feeling of peace. Soon will be another day. The sun will rise again.

When I rise in the morning, although keenly aware of all my blessings, I am still uneasy and unable to recapture the feeling of flight, the belief from my dreams that I could take wing to soar above that which concerns me.

But now it is spring, the season of hope. The days, weeks, months have been fleeting and yet all too prolonged to get us to this point in time. The pandemic is older than we believed it could ever become. The transgressor still has its steely grip on our daily lives.

We continue to mask up, remain socially distant and try to find normalcy in days that are anything but normal. Hope blooms with vaccinations while the spread remains a challenging foe. Rumi wrote of “calm in the midst of lightning.” Just as I find calmness in Native American music, I find peace in knowing our Higher Power has a plan.

Tonight, I will probably awaken again sometime between 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. I will most likely turn to the Native American music that brings my mind and dreams to take wing and when I soar over the hills and streams I will find solace in the flight, in believing God has a plan, and knowing that the spring will always come.

Written and submitted by Amy Randall-McSorley for The Circleville Herald. The views of this column may not necessarily reflect that of the newspaper.

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