The City Keeps Us Awake

Sometimes, I lie awake, not worrying about anything in particular, but simply…aware. Aware of the hum of the refrigerator, the distant rumble of a truck, the streetlight filtering through the curtains. It wasn’t always like this, of course. Years ago, when Bernard and I first bought this house, I slept like a stone. Deep, dreamless sleep. A full eight hours, every night. Now, I’m lucky if I get six, and those are often punctuated by a restless alertness.

I’ve read articles, of course, about sleep hygiene. Keep the room dark, cool, and quiet. No screens before bed. All sensible advice. And I *try*. I really do. But sometimes, I suspect the problem isn't solely within the four walls of my bedroom. It's something bigger, something woven into the very fabric of where we live.

It's a curious thing, this growing understanding of how our surroundings shape us. We used to think of the house, the garden, the neighborhood as mere backdrops for our lives. Pleasant or unpleasant, perhaps, but ultimately secondary to our internal state. But what if those backdrops are subtly, powerfully influencing our well-being? What if the very design of our cities is conspiring to keep us awake?

I’ve been thinking about this a lot since I retired. The quietness of the days allows for a different kind of observation. Before, I was always rushing, always focused on the next lesson plan, the next parent-teacher conference. There was no time to truly *notice*. Now, I notice the relentless glare of the streetlights, the constant flow of traffic, the lack of green space within walking distance.

Phyllis and I, we had that little equinox gathering in the backyard last autumn. Just the two of us, nibbling on cheese and crackers, watching the sun sink below the trees. And it struck me then, how profoundly restorative even a small patch of nature can be. The scent of the herbs, the rustling of the leaves…it was a balm for a weary soul. It wasn't just pleasant; it felt *essential*.

I remember a trip we took to Italy, years ago. Small villages, nestled amongst rolling hills. Stone houses, surrounded by olive groves. The air felt…different. Calmer. There was a sense of peace that permeated everything. It wasn’t just the history or the architecture; it was the very design of the place, the way it harmonized with the landscape. Could we create spaces like that here? Not replicas, of course, but places that foster a similar sense of tranquility?

It’s not about grand gestures or sweeping reforms. It's about the small things. More trees along the sidewalks. Less harsh lighting. More opportunities for connection with nature, even in the most urban environments. Perhaps a small, shared garden, a place where neighbors can gather and tend to something living. It's about recognizing that sleep isn't a luxury, it’s a fundamental human need. And that the quality of our sleep is inextricably linked to the quality of our surroundings.

Bernard is reading something about sustainable urban planning now, something he found in one of those journals. He says there are new ways of assessing neighborhoods, using images and data to understand how people experience a place. I don’t pretend to understand all the technical details, but I do understand the basic principle: our environment speaks to us, whether we are consciously listening or not. And right now, I think it’s telling us we need to listen more carefully.