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 and we want everyone to heal. And there will be plenty who turn up their nose at our music/food/tea/clothing and make no bones about sharing that opinion. Well. No matter. We'll slip our headphones back on and sip our tea while it's hot.