Sleep that knits up the raveled sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labor’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.
[Macbeth 2.2.49-52]
Sleep.
When you really need it, wherever you can get it–a 10 or 20 minute doze in a crowded train or plane, or an extra three or four times of hitting snooze before the day ahead–is absolutely glorious.
Sleep is a common motif in Shakespeare’s plays, especially the tragedies, histories, and of course, A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
In the above passage from Macbeth, Shakespeare likens life to a feast, and sleep as the primary comfort and replenisher for our waking hours full of cares, physical expenditures, and emotional pain.
Sometimes we are depressed and just want to disappear into the oblivion of sleep–or media or alcohol–to escape our thoughts and woes. But sometimes, when we’re really lucky, the exhaustion we feel is purely physical. There’s nothing wrong with us. We haven’t lost our zest for life, or even our desire to party. Great travel, vigorous activities we love and are still getting better at, crisp fresh air and stunning new vistas have made our bodies crackle with excitement. And after a week or so of feeling so vitally alive, we are just fricking physically spent.
The French say “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” and especially when I’m in Europe, or on vacation in general, I tend to honor that theory. But at a certain point, no love, or wave, or trail, or bike ride, or shopping spree, or picnic feels more sublimely, viscerally decadent than sinking into cozy cosseted rest. In a good bed with soft, feathery duvets–or even in a $65 a night room with too-stiff clean cotton sheets–the hug of covers, and having my body held up by something other than my own strength, nourishes me to the core.
Sleep.
Whether alone; with someone deeply longed for; alongside a known and tender loved one; or with the comfort of a pet who’s been missing you pressed up into your side; if you go hard enough for long enough, no meal, or night of revelry, or camaraderie of friends is more luxurious than sleep.