Talking in My Sleep: How to Awaken By Listening
by Jennifer Paros
“Moment after moment, completely devote yourself to listening to your inner voice.”
When I was a kid, I used to trail after my Mom while she did various tasks around the house. Sometimes, after a while of me talking steadily, she’d turn and say, “Enough.” It wasn’t said harshly – it was more of a plea of exhaustion followed by an endearment. I always felt ashamed at those moments, but if I’d been honest with myself I would have admitted that I too was exhausted. Often I was talking in my sleep. Leftover frustration and sadness were driving a somewhat unconscious me; I was distractedly trying to talk my way out of discomfort.
Early in our marriage, my husband described that kind of talking as “searching”; he said it seemed as though I was just talking in search of relief with no real direction. This analysis wasn’t a big hit with me; I felt guilty and defensive. My unhappiness seemed important; my need for comfort, relevant. But he too was exhausted, and though I could not defend this kind of talking, I knew there was something worth defending. I was hoping to hear my own voice, not the scared, negative, reactive one, but the one that knew I was going to be okay, that I was good and valuable, and that my natural state was happy. Little did I know you have to be awake to hear that voice.
I’ve learned that when I feel unhappy, I’m not all the way here. I’ve vacated; now is a stranger to me whether or not I believe I’m in it. I’m standing on the head of the present moment attempting to reach for something else, looking to get to the next thing or just out of where I am. It seems like being unhappy is a sure sign of being where I am and not liking it, but it turns out that is incorrect. What’s happening is that my thinking (and talking) is, at the moment, out of accord with who I really am and what I really want.
I wasn’t more than nine when my father went on a business trip to Boston and returned with gifts for my older sister and me. He bought us both music boxes. Hers was made of wood, somewhat dainty and circular with small figurines holding umbrellas, which rotated to the song, Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head. Mine was a larger plastic replica of Snoopy’s doghouse with Snoopy on top. As soon as I saw the differences in our gifts, I decided my sister’s was better and mine was no good.
“The first demand any work of art makes upon us is to surrender. Look. Listen. Receive. Get yourself out of the way.”
My father knew I loved Snoopy. At one time, I’d even asked if I could make “Snoopy” my middle name. But I feared my music box seemed babyish and might imply something unflattering about me. After some complaint on my part, he agreed to exchange it and returned from his next trip with another similar in style to my sister’s. I politely accepted the replacement. I can’t remember its figurines or song, and I don’t know what happened to it. I didn’t much like it. I got what I asked for, but it wasn’t actually what I wanted.
Though my critical mind was in overdrive when I received the original music box, I was just talking in my sleep. The lights were on but no one was home. If I’d actually been home, I would have happily welcomed Snoopy. The gift may not have been like my sister’s, but it was right for me.
It was right because it was a good reflection of something true and already ignited inside me. I couldn’t recognize it in the moment because I wasn’t listening to myself. As writers, we are tasked with finding the voices of our characters. So we listen and wait to hear what word choice, point of view, and tone is authentic to them.
As individuals, we can listen for our identity based in something deeper than our history or future projection. To be fully present we listen for our truest nature and speak from that. That way, the Self is leading, rather than the self-image.
Sometimes our thinking and talking are not inspired by what we actually want. We may be pushing against the present moment, trying to escape. We’re craving our own voice, our own truth, yet we’re speaking from a sleep state. But we can awaken – because we can listen.
Jennifer Paros is a writer, illustrator, and author of Violet Bing and the Grand House (Viking, 2007). She lives in Seattle. Please visit her website.