I miss my insomnia.

Removing alcohol from my life over a year ago has delivered many gifts, including the bliss of deep sleep that long left me. But, the one thing I do miss from those days is those early hours: 3:30, 4 AM, what I called the “Tibetan Monk Hour” romanticizing the inability to sleep into one of inspiration and spirituality aligning with the pre-dawn rituals of prayer in Tibetan culture.

Ejected from sleep by a body dealing with alcohol-induced insomnia, I’d pad quietly across the living room to our NYC balcony window overlooking 58th Street between 8th and 9th. A wall of apartment windows has entertained us over the years, sometimes blank as everyone sleeps, other times coming to life. I love the holidays when lone souls are suddenly joined by many, their cluttered studios that I see in the early hours, sitting alone watching TV, now joyfully full of people.

I miss my insomnia.

That dark hour when no one but the lone older gentleman on the 3^rd floor is up with me. His lone lamp shines above his seated frame, his armchair glowing as he turns page by page. Next door, just the glimmer of Christmas tree lights left on overnight. A security guard paces outside the Time Warner entrance. From six floors up, I can see his breath swirling in the air as he claps his hands to keep the blood moving. Even at 4 AM, a long line of delivery trucks down the street, drivers nodding off as they await the magic hour that beckons them and their goods in for delivery to the local market.

I miss my insomnia.

The silence. The aloneness in a city that, despite what you’ve heard, does rest its eyes briefly at that Tibetan Monk Hour. A time of reflection, looking ahead at a new day, and behind at the stories and connections that brought you here. The hour of no time, when nothing is needed of me and everyone sleeps.

I miss my insomnia.

(I don’t miss the headache hangover.)