This past week, I indulged in a couple late afternoon naps. I was working from home and early morning conference calls shortened my regular sleeping shift. Maybe I was grappling with sugar fluctuations, too – that sudden overwhelming feeling that your batteries have been pulled out. Or maybe it’s just winter, and I couldn’t fight the impulse to hibernate. (As my friend Lynne would say, “Hey, I’m only a mammal.”)

There’s a special pleasure in taking an afternoon nap. Small meditative retreats are nice; a few minutes where, with closed eyes, you can sit quietly behind a closed door. In a 24/7 world, it’s nice to claim time when you’re really not available. But a nap can seem to take self-care to another level.

Reclining, stretching out in a sort of weightless space feels wonderful. It triggers all sorts of endorphin-like releases. My breathing slows down. My thoughts slow down. The awareness that I am a body seems to melt into the couch or mattress, or blanketed piece of beach where I find myself. I also like the feeling of burying my chest and shoulders under the covers.

Aha. This is where a nap gets serious. If you are sitting on your office chair and nod off, that’s just taking “40 winks.” If you slip into sleep in front of the television and your mother or brother or sweetheart throws an afghan over you, then it’s an OFFICIAL nap. The presence of a covering adds a sort of seriousness to the intention to rest.

I have had a funny relationship with covers for most of my life.

I cannot sleep in beds where the covers are tucked in, hospital corner style. It makes me feel claustrophobic. I feel constricted throughout my body, not just below my ankles. I feel somehow trapped, limbless, immobilized. I have a ritual I do when I first step into a hotel room. After evaluating the quality of the décor and attention to comfort, after seeing what kind of mini bottles of shampoos and creams they offer on their bathroom hospitality trays and examining whether I can turn off the lights from the bed, I un-tuck the sheets so that I can kick out my feet and bathe my toes in oxygen while I slumber.

When I was a child, maybe around five years-old, our family had one air conditioner in our house; a nod both to comfort and the reality of household finances. It was planted in one of our large dining room windows, our dining room being a sort of central point of our bungalow. Here, we thought the Mighty Fedders, as if its cold breath could turn corners, would cool the whole house.

Anyway, I used to place a chair right in front of the behemoth blower, turn it up to “High Cool” and sit maybe 10 inches in front of it. With fluffy cotton quilt wrapped snuggly around my shoulders and chest, I would giggle with glee as the stream of chilling air would blow past my ears. My hair, I imagined, must have been flying behind my head like the colored streamers at Sears, the ones they dangled in front of their air conditioner display models in their appliance department to show off their power. I loved the kiss of cold air on my cheeks and the enveloping warmth around my shoulders. Eeeeee.

So even now, when I take a nap, my body, unconsciously, seems to want to find its own kind of perfect balance. My face and feet seek out fresh air and openness; my heart wants to rest in layers of warmth and constancy.

Feeling both free and mobile while immeasurably safe and protected is no small thing.