I woke up in the middle of the night, dog must’ve woofed or sumthin’. Not a totally unheard of event, living in the country. A lot of distractions going on outside in the big woods. Four legged distractions. Sophie in particular fancies herself a watchdog. Twelve pounds of Maltipoo vs. the wild beasts.

Bean tends to sleep through it all. Most nights I roll over, stuff a pillow over my head and go back to sleep.

But last night was different. I was in the middle of a dream. And there was a blowtorch involved. Which meant I was making art, doing the encaustic dance in my sleep.

I lay there thinking about that. About sleep as a means of recharging and refreshing and yet here I was carrying on the activities of the day on a whole ‘nother level.

As I write this many hours later, I have no memory of the the dream itself, of the content. But I still see the image I woke up with, the torch in my hand, the flame on the wax.

And I’m thinking it’s a good thing I don’t sleepwalk. And if I ever did, there’s a couple of locked doors and a gauntlet of wild beasties between me and that torch.