Winston and the Restless Quiet of 2:30am

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Frost sparkled underfoot as Winston and I made our sunless trot out into the backyard. 

Ever since Winston the Westie came into our lives, just this past Labor Day, he and I have made the same trek every night. The leash goes on, because we don’t have a fence. I pull on my coat and slip my bare feet into my well-beaten boots. 

And we walk. 

The singular purpose is for Winston to go to the bathroom. Being that he has miniature innards, that trip is every 4 hours or so during the night.

And so around 2:30am without fail we pace circles around the yard. Waiting for the deed to be done. Like the Postal Service, in rain, sleet, snow, or hail. 

This moment can’t be rushed, mainly because Winston isn’t in a hurry. He has nowhere else to be, yet the encroaching winter has prompted a bit more inspiration in our nightly trip. Still, Winston is pensive and purposeful in sniffing every breeze floating by. He is present in the moment in front of him. There is nothing more. 

My wife will tell you that we – Winston and I – often stand side by side in the yard and stare off into the green space behind the house. We apparently cock our heads the same way, creating the illusion of man and dog united in thought.

We aren’t. 

Winston is living in the seconds as they tick by, but my longing is for the future warmth of my bed and the comfort of a few more hours of sleep. Sleep before we return to whatever this pandemic life has become. The sleep that precedes a day that feels eerily similar to a half-dozen that have already come and gone. 

Winston wonders at the new scent – rabbit? Coyote? He lifts one paw and turns his snout to the air. 

I wonder when this season of life will ever end. When will something that has the semblance of normalcy burst through the door, announcing itself with trumpets and feasting? 

Will my writing ever come back again? Can I find the end of that thread that slipped away sometime in March, and has yet to return? Or like Winston’s scents, has it floated away with the full dark breezes and is now headed eastbound on Midlothian Turnpike? 

Who will I be if the next book never gets written? Whatever on earth will I have to say on Twitter? 

Winston sniffs and paws at the ground. He finds a few rabbit droppings to munch on. I used to protest, but at some point you have to pick your battles when it comes to non-verbal creatures who have the evolutionary pedigree to hunt small game. 

The silence of night is some of the deepest quiet you can imagine, of course.

Stillness beyond stillness. If something so devoid of activity or noise can be called “full,” then the 2:30am air is indeed full. 

But I don’t feel full. Exhausted, worn to the bone, and even depressed are accurate descriptors. Winston sits on the diamond-sparkle grass, as if he can sense my energy level dipping. 

The moment in front of us is a restless one. Restlessness is that unsettled moment that prompts our brain to either fix, fight, or flop. Restlessness is a present-tense sort of thing. We aren’t restless about the future because by then we’ll know what we don’t know now. 

Restlessness is that uninvited moment where we suddenly realize, like the bartender’s trope, “I can’t go home but I can’t stay here.” The restless moment in front of us is the space in between. It is the nowhere between where we were and where we’re headed. 

COVID-19 brought us to a restless moment where we know that we can’t ever go back to March 12. Nor can we stay in this quasi-shut down (or full shut down, who knows what will transpire in the time between this writing and your reading). 

In the quiet frosted land, with an unhurried dog, I’m forced to reckon with my restlessness. Not just the restlessness, but the accompanying realization…

Winston turns. It is time to go in. 

No one asked for this restless moment. No one. I didn’t ask to be outside with a dog at 2:30 in the morning, mounting fervent prayers for quick urination. 

But the unasked-for, unwanted, unbidden moments are the ones that are thick with Divinity. Restless moments like these are the ones where we ask the exact right questions. 

We ask the truly human questions. Which are, of course, the truly spiritual questions. 

Where do I belong?

What am I here for? 

Is there enough? 

Can we be healed?

Can we be rescued? 

I lead Winston to the porch, where Holley my wife is waiting. She tenderly wipes his paws and unclasps the collar. We softly rustle his scruff, slowly, whispering and shhhh’ing him through the house. 

I turn to lock the door and look one more time at the quiet void. Just like last night. Just like the night yet to come. 

There are so many questions out there. Can I ask them? More than that, can I be grateful for the restlessness that brings them to mind? 

(Photo by Keagan Henman on Unsplash)