A winter's nap renews the spirit as only simple pleasures can.

Byline: Write on by Kimber Williams The Register-Guard

AND SO I AM a pillow. A human hot-water bottle. An instrument of comfort to the chubby toddler nestled by my side.

Her skull claims the softest flesh of my bicep, golden curls finding home against the chalky underbelly of my arm.

A small, warm shoulder burrows hard, affixed to my ribcage as if she simply grew that way - a barnacle that has always belonged.

Even in sleep, this child yearns to cuddle, a delicious gift.

"Go to sleep with me, Mommy," she entreats. And I can't refuse.

Beneath the wintry-gray bluster of an Oregon afternoon, I am napping with my daughter, Grace. Swaddled under a crazy quilt, we eavesdrop on the jagged pulse of rain now clamoring in our gutters, a sound so frantic against the drowsy refuge of this warm bed.

And I exhale - a long, slow release of air and anxiety and the weight of all that has been brought on by recent months. Muscles soften and puddle, sagging into the mattress like a floppy piece of poultry, suddenly deboned.

Grace sleeps on, a small bird tucked beneath my wing. A perfect fit.

We are settled, snuggled, satisfied. Our hearts echo in perfect counterpoint, falling into the gentle call-and-response of an old-time gospel choir, a rhythmic biological lullaby. Even the movement of our cells seems bound in an unconscious embrace.

It is an act of pure communion, this. A sleepy meditation.

The moment is small, these seconds before I surrender, joining her in the soft shadows of our private dreams.

But it is rich and heady, filled with a dizzying illusion that for an instant, I can actually absorb the whole fragrant ripeness of what it means to be here, to be on this Earth.

To be human. To be weary. To nap.

Who knew it would be like this? To find spiritual clarity in cuddling a 3-year-old? To hunger for nap time?

Not me. I have a prickly relationship with sleep and have spent a lifetime trying to avoid it, terrified that l would miss something good if I closed my eyes to the world for too long.

In my youth, I burned the candle at every end and accepted exhaustion like a bizarre badge of fortitude, unwilling to miss the extremes of even one day.

Once I finally do fall into bed, I'm a real estate tyrant. I like space enough to fling my limbs, flopping about like a hound dog forced to turn ritualistic circles before finding comfort.

That may explain my daughter's own thrashing ways with sleep, her small arms and legs stabbing ferociously until she meets some point of resistance - preferably against my own body - which seems to provide her an eerie satisfaction. As if testing boundaries, even in her sleep.

Sometimes, her dream-driven fingers flutter sightlessly through the air, lighting upon my face like a delicate winged thing that has found rest.

I startle at the unexpected touch, open my eyes, smile.

In my adult life, I've rarely made room for naps. Now - especially now - I crave them as an indulgent retreat. A cocoon against the recent bruises of the outside world. An acceptable escape.

I want to pull the crisp top sheet of my king-sized bed over both of our heads, to "make us a house," as my little girl begs.

A makeshift tent of linens big enough for just we two. It is a cozy, exclusive club, and we like it that way.

No room for anthrax, sorry. Osama Bin Ladin need not apply.

We are told that these days require a different consciousness. After Sept. 11, our world grew smaller. We're supposed to be alert, aware - connect with our neighbors, our communities in a way that matters.

But I find myself hunkering down just a bit, attending to small things. Organizing a drawer. Mating socks. Scrubbing ceilings. Trimming my daughter's fine, blond curls with tiny manicure scissors, as if I could possibly fine-tune her perfection.

On that fateful September morning, I found myself drawn oddly away from the television and into my kitchen, with a panicky desire to bake sugar cookies. A friend acknowledged that she made a hasty pot of soup as CNN blared tales of terrorism. I heard of a school where cooks scrapped the day's menu in favor of starchy comfort food - cradles of mashed potatoes swathed in blankets of gravy.

Lately, however, I find no greater comfort than watching my daughter sleep, inhaling her sweet-sour baby's breath like purifying incense. A smell somehow made holy in its creation. To breathe, to live.

Sleep is my salvation, my ritual, my assurance. I shall not want.

Work days leave me cross. Naps bring contentment. I covet them as proof that purity still exists in my world, propagated in small, excruciatingly normal moments such as this.

And I worship the simple human connection that comes from napping with my child. My arm, a pillow. My body bringing comfort, even as my brain still struggles to find it.

A friend observes: "It must be nice to have the distraction of a toddler in your life these last few months."

Oh, dear God, yes.

A child, who arises with sleepy, hopeful smiles. Who cradles your own waking face with joyful wonder - irrefutable proof that after the night's groggy hibernation, life indeed begins anew.

Slates washed clean, grievances gone. Small, sticky hands open, eager to seize a fat handful of the coming day.

A child who smears wet kisses along the peachskin curve of your cheek and marvels over each breathless new discovery, however humbling.

"Oh, Momma!" she gasps. "You have whiskers, just like Daddy!"

Kimber Williams is a Register-Guard features reporter, a free-lance writer and the mother of a 3-year-old. She can be reached at 338-2374 or at kwilliams@guardnet. com

To contribute to Write On, mail a typed, double-spaced manuscript to Write On, The Register-Guard, P.O. Box 10188, Eugene, OR 97440. Submissions should be 500 to 800 words long. Attach a cover letter that includes your age, address, telephone number, occupation and a couple of sentences of biographical information. If you want a rejected manuscript returned, include a self-addressed, stamped envelope. There is no payment for a published column.