Sometimes what is broken is of better use as compost, as literal or figurative fertilizer.
I try never to keep what is no longer of use or of beauty to me, but a very few objects live in my heart. Those I will mend again and again, and when mending is no longer possible, I'll put them aside and call it art.
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...
We talk a good game about growth, and I really do believe it happens, incrementally, even without our interference. In other words--we worry too much. We worry too much, in part, I think, because we're so out of sync with natural rhythms. We get that frisson of excitement when spring starts to blow in every March, and maybe we act on it. Maybe we let it call us outdoors or to our curiosity or to an old project, a new project.
But then we seem to ignore it, to bat it away like it's a nuisance and because doesn't it know we're tired already? But here's the thing--we don't have to be active when this voice calls. We don't have to participate with the same energy--after all, Mother-Earth-Father-Sky have been doing this a long time--they've got stamina. Us? We're just novices.
So when spring calls, step outside. Just step outside and be outside. Sit. Breathe. Close your eyes against the sun or the wind or the rain and let this earth take care of you. That is your blessing. There is you...
We forget how easy it once was to invent entire worlds armed only with a few good books, a stuffed animal or two, and a room/a tree/a fort to climb into and call our own.
I think it was the safety of that space--the one fully ours with no complications of ownership or anxiety about time passing and proper use of that time--that cultivated such easy enterprise. And my question is, what's changed? Sure, we've become harder, less malleable, more prone to glancing over our shoulder to see who's watching, and lord knows we've invented all kinds of productive-looking habits.
But aren't we still that small creature who dreamed worlds infinitely larger than herself? And didn't we once find comfort in such spaciousness, in such boundless wilderness?