When I was 11 or 12, I had a little bout of insomnia. It was autumn, the beginning of either 7^th or 8^th grade, and for a few nights I couldn’t fall asleep.

Nowadays that might have a different name. When I hear people describe insomnia, they report no trouble falling asleep, but then waking about three hours later and being unable to return to unconsciousness. That wasn’t my problem. I got in my bed at my normal time, did the usual snuggling down and twisting to my side, tucked my hands under my chin, and … nothing. I just lay there awake.

I fretted about it. I began to worry about how I’d feel and perform the next day, with insufficient sleep. I got out of my bed and went to my parents for help.

They had a big bed, a California king. I remember entering their doorway, saying I couldn’t fall asleep. Mom wasn’t up for it. You had to be a baby or distinctly ill for Mom to get up at night.

I guess the job was allocated to Dad. I can summon up the vision of his silhouette in the room. They had no nightlight but they slept with their curtains and window open, and Dad, first sitting up in bed and swinging his legs over the side and then standing and walking toward me, was a tall shadow against the window light.

He walked me back to bed. Tucked me in and sat on the edge. Talked to me.

He told me that rest is when my body repairs itself and grows. He said repose is critical but sleep isn’t. He acknowledged that sleeping is better than lying in bed all night – it rests your brain more but mostly it makes the night short – but he was emphatic about the object: it was to be still and rest and mend and grow.

I don’t even have to tell you what’s next. Of course I fell asleep. Almost as soon as I relaxed I lost consciousness. And more or less lost the ability to be bothered when I don’t sleep.

In the light of day Mom conjectured that my insomnia was caused by my lack of a date for an upcoming school dance. I don’t think she was right about that. To this day I don’t know what caused it. I know what cured it.