Waking in the middle of the night

4 a.m., and try to think through what's worrying me, or what's worth planning.

One day, years ago, I said to a woman co-worker:  "My best thoughts come to me in the middle of the night."

To which she replied:  "Not me.   Mostly what I come up with the middle of the night isn't worth a damn."

Now I think I was wrong, misquoting something I'd heard in another context, and she was right.  With quite a few healthy decades of middle-of-the-nighters behind me, now I know:  by the next morning (a) what seemed brilliant seems, by morning light, pretty ordinary and (b) what seemed scary now seems like no big deal.  And it's a stew, of everyday reality and that night's dreams, brown and complicated.