Sleeping Well, Remembering More

It seems lately I’ve been thinking a great deal about forgetting. Not my own forgetting – everyone has those moments, bless their hearts – but the larger sort, the kind that shadows families and whispers through nursing homes. It's a fear, certainly, but also an unavoidable observation as one moves further along this path. Bernard tells me I worry too much; he’s always been a practical man, my Bernard. But some things defy practicality, don’t they?

My mother had it, you know. Not quickly, not dramatically, but a slow fading of the light. She used to make the most marvelous apple pies – golden crust, cinnamon scent that clung to your clothes for days. I can recall her hands kneading the dough perfectly, without measuring, just *knowing*. Later, she couldn’t remember how to do that. Not entirely at first, just… lapses. A pinch too much salt, forgetting which apples were best for baking. Then bigger things began to slip away. It was heartbreaking to watch, and I felt utterly helpless.

We're learning more now about why that happens, thankfully. There’s a whole field of study looking at the ways our brains change as we age, and how sleep seems to play a crucial role in keeping those changes gentle rather than destructive. I remember reading an article—it was quite technical, I confess – but it kept circling back to this idea that deep, restful slumber isn't just about feeling refreshed; it's literally a kind of nightly housekeeping for the brain. Like sweeping up crumbs after dinner before they attract unwelcome guests.

You see, when we sleep deeply, our brains do something remarkable: they clear out toxins that have built up during the day. It’s a process, apparently, that is vital to healthy aging. And recent research indicates a troubling link between disrupted deep sleep and an increased risk of… well, those very conditions like my mother's. The sort where your memories begin to scatter like leaves in the autumn wind.

I find myself paying far more attention to my own sleep these days. Thirty-four years of early mornings – grading papers, preparing lessons, dealing with adolescent anxieties—certainly didn’t leave a lot of room for prioritizing good rest. I'd often tell my students that a tired brain couldn’t learn, but I rarely took my own advice seriously enough. Now, in retirement, the quiet afternoons have allowed me to reconsider those habits.

Phyllis and I had our equinox gathering last week – just us two, beneath the apple tree I planted years ago. We brought out the chamomile tea and talked about nothing much at all, but as she was leaving, she remarked how peaceful it seemed in my garden these days. I think that peace has seeped into me too. A sense of… intentionality, perhaps. And a newfound determination to nurture not just my plants, but also myself.

It’s not about avoiding the inevitable, of course. Aging is part of life, and change is constant. But it *is* about doing what we can to support our brains as they navigate those changes. Turning off the television earlier in the evening, creating a calming bedtime routine—simple things that make a difference. Even just ensuring my bedroom is cool and dark. It’s something I wish I had known thirty years ago.

Perhaps it's a message for those younger generations – my students, really - to prioritize their sleep now, not as a luxury but as an investment in their future selves. Because remembering the taste of apples, or kneading dough with loving hands… that’s worth protecting, isn’t it? It is more than just memory; it's who we are.