And Miraculously, His Snoring Does Not Annoy Me any More

I used to get LIVID at my husband’s snoring.

There is nothing more heartwrenching than being yanked out of the reverie of a perfect dream bya rude foghorn.

Especially when a bare-chested, muscled Adoni is caressing my soft chocolatey hair as we stand barefoot and and ankle-deep in gently lapping waves illuminated by a glorious pink and blue sunset on a power white beach, electrifying every cell in my yielding body and leaning into me to plant The Kiss . . .

Grrr . . . it’s just plain WRONG to rob someone of a moment like that.

Direct commands (oy! Stop snoring!) don’t work. Defeatist pleas (aawww . . c’mon . . . stop torturning me, pleeeaaze) don’t work.

As I lay there, fists clenched, fuming, the tense silence would inevitably be shattered by resumed rumblings.

I HATED IT! *kick* *hummpph!*

In the wee hours of one misty, moisty morning, when cloudy was the weather, and I had burrowed deeply and completely inside the duvet, curled up in the furthermost corner of the bed at the brink of falling off, I head a little Yoda-like voice whisper in my ear,

“Find the gem in this situation, you can.”

Hmmmm . . . I must be spending too much time with my Star Wars obsessed eight-year-old, or using my Yoda-voice enhanced GPS too often.

In that mysterious mindspace twix sleeping and waking, before theta brainwaves finally slip into delta waves and wash over my consciousness, I had a brainwave (naturally). Or, maybe I was just running out of oxygen under the covers.

Anyway.

A new question arose in my enlightened mind to replace “How can I get him to shup up and let me sleep in peace?”

And that new question was,

“Can I give the snoring my full attention and uncover the positives it represents?”

So, for the first time, I focused on the snoring rather than try not to hear it.

I listened. Really listened.

Initially, I could still feel my hackles bristling, yet I pushed through the negativity and focused on the sound emitting from the human trombone instead of the fury seizing my chest, shoulders, and jaws (SNAP!).

Then, wow.

D’s snoring started to sound . . . melodic. An even rhythm, rising, falling, the unexpected pause a little surprise; a shift in position and an effortless resuming, while maintaining a buzzing timbre not unpleasant. Gosh. It sounded—dare I say it—cute.

And within these new answers to the new question lay the power to heal my experience with D’s snoring. The nightly snoring means:

-    There is someone I trust lying in bed with me every night

-      I feel safe and protected

-      He is not out getting drunk, or stoned, or partying with wild women

-      I am not alone

-      If there is a bump in the night, I can “arrow” him to investigate

-      Who needs a hot water bottle or electric blanket in winter when you have a hot 75kg bod scented with Polo aftershave to spoon and snuggle up to (Ok sorry, too much information)

As I caressed these thoughts over and over again in my mind, laced with the sonorous tones of sweet rhythmic breaths, my thoughts dissolved into the resonant vibrations, the resonant vibrations dissolved into my thoughts, and I slipped into deep, restful slumber.

I only realised I had fallen asleep when I work up, refreshed, to birds twittering in the tree outside the window.

It was dawn, in so many ways.

From that day on, D’s snoring just did not bother me any more.

Hallelujah! Let the triumphant trumpets sound!

(I bet I can learn to sleep through that too!)

P/S To answer J’s question (Does this work for sleep-depriving sleep talkers?), consider customising your own version of The New Question to get new answers, “Can I give the sleeptalking my full attention, address my own current attitudes about it, and uncover the positives it represents?” Keen to hear how you go, babe J xo