It’s Sunday morning. I’m in the greenhouse. Classical music is playing, and I’m reading a new book on cognitive-behavioral therapy that supposedly makes this topic simple. This morning, I’m particularly interested in strategies to help me relax and sleep better. My four shepherds are at my feet, all sound asleep.
I turn the pages of my book, underlining tips to reduce worry, fear and anxiety. I’ve already read the chapter on being more kind to myself. I hope I didn’t miss anything important. Maybe I should go back and underline more stuff.
Nigel shifts to his back. I think he wants me to rub his belly. Sammy’s head is resting on my left shoe. Zeke has a ball in his mouth, but his eyes are comfortably closed. Jodie Beth’s nose is twitching, caught up in some thrilling dream.
It’s not in my book, but I choose to drop to the floor, curl up among my pups, breathe deeply and close my eyes. Chopin’s Waltz is playing. I fall asleep in seconds.
Fifteen minutes later, I awake. My first thought is, I hope I didn’t lose my place in the book. I feel anxious.
Something is definitely wrong with me.