When dogs purr.

Finding joy in your dark places.

It’s not unusual for pain of some kind to waken me.

Today I stumble out to the great room at 3:00 a.m. and forage for Excedrin, squinting at the bright light of my phone, and settle into the sofa. I’ve discovered it makes a lovely nest, giving my body a different way to bend, supporting my reclining frame with its back and cushions.

I turn my face toward the back of the sofa, seeking a nest to hide in. It’s dark, but I want it darker still. And I feel strangely comforted.

To clarify, I have no dire diseases, just annoying migraines and other pains that occasionally (maybe frequently) interrupt my sleep. I’m not a hero; just a rickety, old girl stumbling through the dark, looking for comfort and a few more winks.

My meditation app accompanies me, ocean waves crooning while I try to focus on breathing and relaxing my muscles one by one. I fight the urge to tighten my face against pain, and try to let go, but my stomach is lurching. I stumble to the kitchen and rummage for that selzer water, then back to my nest.

It takes several restarts before I find that my spirit has begun to let go and accept this painful moment. It is then that the pain begins quietly, slowly, softening, melting. I focus on that feeling and find a strange joy in it.

Are my eyes open? I can’t tell; the room is pitch black, the fire having died down, with no moon or stars shining in the windows. I inhale. Exhale slowly. In; out.

Could I sleep with my eyes open, I wonder, if I can’t tell the difference?

I have traded pain for sleeplessness by choosing Excedrin, but I’m okay with that. I’m happy, even a little euphoric as I savor the new comfort of receding pain, relaxing muscles. I listen to Scripture, to soothing podcasts, to soft music. I adjust my body in the sofa cushions and inhale the dark. My mind wanders to friends with needs and pains of their own—cancer, COVID, back surgery, heavy decisions. I pray for them the comfort I am feeling.

With my eyes closed I sense a presence quite near. My hand stretches out and finds sleek dog fur sitting attentively beside me, coiled to spring. I can tell it’s the black one by the feel of her. I'm grateful, and nestle a little closer into the back of the sofa.

“Up,” I murmur, and in a millisecond she has sprung into place beside me, a silky black dog stretched out in a silky black night, invisible, but fully tangible. She begins the dog purr, gratefully wheezing a little on each exhale, a sure sign of doggy bliss. She’s savoring the moment. It’s the same euphoria I feel as I spoon a dog nearly my size, and stroke her satiny sides gratefully.

This is what quiet bliss feels like. Ordinary pleasures, their delight exaggerated, highlighted maybe by the memory of recent pain. The contrast multiplies my happiness, and I don’t mind that I’m awake to feel this moment.

I wish this pleasure--these broken, messed up, pedantic, joy-filled moments of ordinary human bliss—into your life, too.

May your eyes, even if they are closed, be open.

Amen.