Asleep at the Wheel

While I was writing yesterday, I was sitting cross-legged in a chair and my leg fell asleep. My impressive detective skills indicate that the main reason it fell asleep is that the smaller of my two dogs, Bruce, decided he had to sit in my lap while I typed away. Consequently, I did not move my leg in a good forty-five minutes because I did not want to disturb his nap.

This admission may sound sweet and generous, but it is actually indicative my own special brand of craziness. For one thing, Bruce sleeps about 20 of the 24 hours that comprise the day, so disturbing this brief nap really would not have adversely affected him. That being said, not only does Bruce sleep excessively, but he is also like my friend Dr. Gray in that he can sleep anytime, anywhere, for any amount of time. A remarkable quality when you think about it--and a great one for both an ER doctor and a dog. My point is that I could have moved my leg sixteen times and Bruce likely would not have budged from his slumber.

So in my non-sensical efforts to assist my dog with obtaining quality sleep, my own leg falls asleep. It then becomes time to remove Bruce from my lap so that we can go for a walk. The walk, mind you, was not Bruce’s idea as he still had about 14 hours to go to catch up on his daily rest.

I stretched my leg out to stand up and subsequently felt the most debilitating crazy pains for what had to be about five minutes. As Bruce snorted and snuffed to advertise his disgruntled state, I collapsed on the floor in pain. Suffice it to say, it was a rude awakening all around.

The reason I bring this somewhat unremarkable story up is that it inspired a thought: how was it that I did not know that my leg had fallen asleep? Then as it was in its “sleeping” state, I continued on, unawares. It was only when I changed my position and actually moved that I realized just how intently my leg was “sleeping.” I mean it had to have been pretty far gone into la la land for me to be falling down from the pain as it woke itself up.

And then I thought: this is a perfect analogy for life. I think we are all asleep for many, many aspects of our individual lives. We do not even notice that the situation is wrong or uncomfortable or has adverse affects because we have a little dog in our lap.

Just kidding.

Well sort of. Obviously, we do not all literally have little dogs in our laps. Although little dogs are awfully trendy these days, so maybe a lot of us do. But the point is that figuratively, we all do have something in our lap--or in our life--that we are afraid of jostling, of shaking awake, or disturbing. We stop moving in one or more aspects of our life in order to adjust to that other entity and, as a result, some part of us falls asleep.

Think about it: there are probably components of your life that have stopped evolving because of some sort of pressure you have felt. Maybe that pressure was induced by your own self, maybe by a boss, a colleague, a partner, or a family member. We all have unrealized dreams, untapped passions, underutilized skills. And why? Often because we have thwarted those facets of ourselves due to someone else’s opinion on the matter or our own feelings of inadequacy—maybe you stopped painting because an instructor said you were not good enough, perhaps you gave up the idea of being a parent because you are not married or your partner is not interested, or you could be remaining in a career you feel apathetic towards because you feel pressure from your parents, or from your family. The list goes on and on, in matters big and small.

And then, after a while, you are not even aware that an integral part of you has, essentially, fallen asleep. How bizarre that you probably do not even realize it—just as when a physical limb of ours falls asleep we are often unaware.

Then it is only when something jolts us out of our sonambulatory state that we experience this tingling, stinging, and sharp shooting pains as we move from one position to the next.

Well, eureka! It is no wonder that transition is so difficult for people. Since transition often involves waking up a dormant and powerful part of our psyche, there is an inevitable period of pain before you feel wholly mobile and fully functioning again.

What really strikes me about this analogy is that we are often not even fully aware of the patterns and habits we cultivate in our lives, of the various ways in which we might be sleeping. And the further we fall into that slumber, the harder it is to awaken, the more painful the transition.

The idea ties very much into what I have been trying to cultivate in my own life: being present, being aware. If we can be in the moment and notice that which is going on within our own minds and bodies, we have the opportunity to nip things in the bud. We can notice that first tingling sensation as some vital aspect of our livelihood starts to fall asleep from being underutilized and stagnant for so long. We can embrace it and exercise it right then rather than allowing it to fall into la la land and later having to traverse the painful passages to “wake it up.”

And of course, this whole situation also illustrates how important it is to figure out what aspects have perhaps already fallen into a deep slumber and to now re-awaken them, even though the process will likely be a bit difficult.

The biggest surprise of my day is that Bruce's (undiagnosed) narcoleptic condition would inspire such grand ideas.