ight and I are not necessarily friends. The consistent blackness outside makes it hard for me to find my bearings. It's colder, and the glare of the lamps inside obstructs the world beyond the windows. And I am inside, because what business does a lady have out there when darkness falls? I heard someone's mother once say that nothing much good ever happens after midnight, and the squeaky clean part of myself tends to agree.

But we've formed an uneasy pact, night and I. Because it's prime time for productivity these days when I can have a full tummy and a hot cup of coffee. Otherwises I'm useless, listless, distracted. My work is suffering from lack of rhythm. I'm suffering from lack of rhythm. So I need the night to hold onto, to get a thing or two done, to tip the scales of the day back a little bit toward normalcy.

I don't like it, being a night person. But it's a temporary arrangement. Ramadan challenges me to probe around outside my comfort zone. Before it started I thought to myself, "I'll just keep on with my normal day, I'll just be hungry and thirsty — so what?" But it's not that simple. It's one month of submission, over and over. With every rakah I'm being kneaded. I wake when I do not want to. I fast when I do not want to. I work when I do not want to. It's a vulnerable state, being jostled outside of oneself. So I'll take what the night has to give.