Left: Walking the dyke at Crescent Beach.
Photo: Lois Peterson
It's taken me a week to get my internal clock back in order since coming home from the UK. On my first night home I made it to 7 p.m. before I crashed, then was wide awake and ready to go at 1 a.m.
Have not had an interrupted night since then, but I did 'sleep through' until 5 this a.m. which is a slight improvement.
My friend Carole, the wisest woman I've ever known, used to consider sleepless nights as 'gifts of time'. She'd give herself ten minutes or so, then if she could not go back to sleep, she'd get up and find something to do that she might not normally think she'd have time for.
When I wake up at an ungoldy hour, the first thing I think of doing is giving Carole a call, or at least turning on the computer so I can drop her a note to ask what she might be doing if she was me. But it's too late now. She died about four years ago, and it's not only in the darkest hours that I miss her.
But she left me with enough to think about to last me a lifetime.
Sleep well, Carole.