It's Ash Wednesday.
There are five minutes between now and the beginning of my bedtime ritual. That means five minutes to think and ponder and write whatever comes to my mind before I become a slave to my sleep. I have spent decades wondering why sleep evaded me when I desperately needed it . . . only to envelop me when I wanted to stay awake for more important ventures. Not anymore.
Now, I have a regular sleep schedule; it runs with the precision of a British bank in Edwardian England. I will tell you all about it tomorrow. Cross my heart; not a pie crust promise.
