Because, you know, it's a battle out here for most of us most days. It shouldn't be. It doesn't have to be, but that's where we are. So we survive (not hyperbole) any way we can. We don't have to answer for these comforts. We only have to answer to ourselves, our needs, and to stop apologizing--particularly to ourselves.
We're always running up against sharp edges, whether difficult decisions or the weight of another day's routine. What gets us through, on the healthy days, is mindfulness--finding simple joy in food, fulfilling work, leisure, and good company. All too often, at least in my experience, that kind of mindfulness, that kind of joy, is elusive.
Without easy access to joy, we're left seeking comfort (comfort that supports us rather than numbs us) for the resilience to make it through our days--a skill we've honed over many years and whose means are absolutely necessary and no one's business but our own.
Comfort in this context, or at least in my context, doesn't include one's favorite comfort-food-esque Netflix option. I mean, there's a comforting application for that, sure. How many times have I clicked on a many-times-watched episode of the Great British Bake-Off after a long day? More than I can count.
But while that option may slow the heart rate, deepen the breath, it doesn't feed what's lacking. It isn't the food of the soul--it's not active enough, not engaging on enough levels.
And while I can't define comfort for you, I suspect you already know what I mean. Deepest comfort is restorative; it's a tonic to nerves and bones, brain and heart. It's warm, soft, whole food. It's long-simmered teas and stews, black-strap molasses and local honey. It's jazz or mountain music, a chamber orchestra or Celtic harp. It's whatever fills in the fissures that life, that long winters, have split into your skin.
And we will share what brings us comfort because, well, we're good people...