Between Twilight and Dawn: The Sacred Rhythm of Sleep

Between Twilight and Dawn: The Sacred Rhythm of Sleep

There is a sacred cadence to the silence that descends as night falls—a hush that soothes the aching echoes of a day too loud with living. In this hushed hour, when the world turns its face from the spotlight of consciousness, I, too, yield to sleep—neither hurriedly nor begrudgingly, but with a quiet reverence, as one might kneel at an altar. My body retires, most nights, around ten—sometimes earlier, sometimes a shade later—drawn by the gentle tide of fatigue that rises like moonlight across the shores of thought.

And I rise—without alarm, without resistance—somewhere between four and five. Not out of obligation, but because the world at that hour is a secret symphony meant only for the chosen few who know its language. Birds have not yet composed their full chorus. The wind speaks in whispers. The stars still linger, reluctant to part. It is a time when divinity walks closest to the earth.

Sleep, to me, is no mere necessity. It is a pilgrimage inward. In its embrace, we lay down not only our limbs but our defences, our delusions, our disappointments. The soul, like a leaf carried on the breath of God, floats into realms the conscious mind dares not tread. Dreams are not always vivid, but their aftertaste remains—mystical, poetic, almost scriptural.

Psychologists will tell you that sleep is when the brain consolidates memory, repairs tissues, recalibrates hormones. But beyond the mechanics of REM and delta waves, there lies something ancient and inexplicable—like Jacob wrestling angels in his sleep, or the Buddha awakening under the Bodhi tree after deep contemplation.

Philosophically speaking, every sleep is a rehearsal for death, and every waking is a rebirth. It is no wonder then that in many sacred traditions, the hours before dawn are considered the holiest. The Brahmamuhurta in Hindu philosophy, the Tahajjud hour in Islam, the early Matins in Christianity—all point to the sanctity of that liminal space where sleep ends and wakefulness begins. It is not just time—it is kairos, the divine moment.

To sleep well is not just to be well-rested; it is to trust the universe with one’s unconsciousness. It is an act of surrender—psychological, theological, and poetic. One must unclench the fists of control, exhale regret, and inhale serenity. The bed becomes not just furniture, but a sanctuary. The blanket not just cloth, but a shroud of divine comfort. The pillow, a vessel for the head to return to the heart.

Of course, there are nights when sleep evades me—when worries waltz in the parlour of my mind, and fears rattle doorknobs. On such nights, I do not wrestle with insomnia. I commune with it. I write, I pray, I listen—to silence, to scripture, to my own fragile breath. And somehow, even then, rest comes—not always in the form of slumber, but in acceptance.

I wake not with a jolt, but with a whisper from within. The early hours are not empty—they are full of promise. I stretch, not just my limbs, but my aspirations. The kettle sings softly in the kitchen, the sky blushes in anticipation, and a new page waits to be written—not just in my journal, but in the theatre of existence.

In a world that romanticises sleeplessness as ambition, and all-nighters as heroic, I choose the discipline of sacred rest. For what is life, if not a series of awakenings—each one more gracious than the last?

Let us then not ask, what time do you sleep or rise?
But rather, how gently do you lay your worries down?
And how gratefully do you greet the morning light?

Night is not the end but a doorway unseen,
A quiet hymn in a chapel serene.
And dawn, oh dawn!—a breath so divine,
Where heaven and earth in slumber align.