Do you have nights when you cannot sleep?

I do, and I blame it on two things.

Have you ever heard of restless leg syndrome? The Mayo Clinic discovered I have this condition.

Your legs start twitching and won’t stop. You have to leave the bed and walk until exhaustion finally wins.

The other problem I have while sleeping is my stubborn brain. I’ve tried everything I know to stop my mind from trying to solve every problem in my life and yours. The thing is this occurs when I get in bed.

Not long ago, both of my sleep problems pounced on me at the same time, and there was no way I could walk the halls either.

What on earth could I do?

I went to my big bookcase where I’ve cataloged every column I’ve ever written for the past 30 years in books.

It crossed my mind that maybe if I could find a column about having a similar problem some other night long ago, I could solve this night’s stress.

Guess what? I found one.

I wrote it March 27, 2007, and I decided to crawl inside that night in Florida and find the peace I found then while sitting at 5:30 a.m. in my oceanfront home.

Here is what I wrote and felt that early morning 22 years ago.

“It is 5:30 am, and I am sitting in my living room. The front of our home is glass, so my vision encompassed sand dunes, high palm trees, the expanse of sandy beach and then seagulls all the way to the horizon in its emerald splendor.

It is quiet, reassuring, humbling.

It is not dark but dim, presenting outlines of these things I know are there.

But as the sun peeks up, I see tops of palm trees moving as if someone is tousling its frowns.

The birds are awake ready for a morning soar and breakfast. The seagulls are noisy and anxious, each one seemingly out for himself, while the pelicans are more organized. For the clowns that they are, the pelicans behave amazingly well. They fly high in the order of a V and silence.

I think the oddest part of the morning is the number of people who are parking their cars in the near dark and walking the wooden bridge over the dunes to the beach.

Who are these people who, at dawn, make their way to the beach? Are they coming for their serenity fix before work, or are they vacationers to get started on their day at the ocean?

Maybe they are fishermen who know something about what kind of fish are running and when.

Then there are the sounds. I recognized the music of the sea. If I listen closely, I can hear the chords amplifying as waves wash the shore, depositing shells from the ocean floor far away. And then the hushing as they recede back to the watery center.

And the smells. Oh my! There is a sea smell as familiar to me as the air itself. No matter what sea or what island, the salt mingles with the seaweed, and it is garnished by the life that swims within it.

So I sit in my home by the sea, allowing all my senses to come alive, and I tie it all together. People have written about the gifts from the sea, and I recognize this morning is indeed a gift to me, and it is my obligation to not only understand the message but to pass it on to you the best I can.

The sea speaks as the epitome of loyalty, of dependability, in that no matter what I do or don’t do, the ocean tide will rise and fall exactly on time — not my time, but a universal time.

It is the ultimate reminder that the universe works. That there is definitely order to it, and most of all, the sea stands for me as the unquestionable truth that mankind is not in charge and that there has to be a God figuratively sitting at the head of the table orchestrating all movements knowing all the functions of all within it.

There are no life forms who understand completely the circle of life and the necessity of every being, every plant and growing thing, every tide and keeping the universe whole, intact and organized.

For me, the sea is my mentor, my teacher, my connection to all else. It is my proof that God exists and that, in ways only He knows, I am a minute but necessary part of the whole.

So are you.”

Now imagine that was 22 years ago, and now I’ve found the peace and the sleep I needed desperately by revisiting a night long ago.

I picked up my beloved cat “P” and cuddled in our bed finally.

Beautifully enough, this night here at Brookdale, I felt God’s presence as we slipped into slumber free of leg cramps and the mind quiet and ready for rest.

The view from the mountain and the sea is wondrous.

Jean Brody is a passionate animal lover and mother. She previously lived in Winchester, but now resides in Littleton, Colorado. Her column has appeared in the Sun for more than 25 years.