Comforting
Memorial Day 2022
A nurse came into the hospital room to check on the old man. After taking vitals and fluffing the pillow, she asked, “Are you comfortable?” He replied with a shrug, “I make a living.”
There are times in any longish life that we prefer contentment over all other states of being. Old friends, foods, habits (good and bad), and “Groundhog Day” patterns of entertainment suffice (how else to explain solitaire and reruns of Alex Trebek’s “Jeopardy”?). Beyond middle age, people are less likely to want anything to do with new people or experiences, or so they say. I think “same ol’ same ol’” is an effort to trick the Universe into keeping us safe from loss. Good luck with that.
And yet, there is a rhythmic satisfaction in the routines that hold me together. I frame it as Self wisdom born from nearly four score years that I know what works for me: how I like my coffee, which tools and tricks give me just the right momentum, people who inspire and support, eschewing flannel sheets. This is balanced against earlier days when each could start at a different time, in a strange place, and with sketchy people. Taught me a lot, filled me with excitement and lessons learned. Now that I have a sense of direction it would undermine the traction I get by living with routine, avoiding change and challenges to my habits. Where am I going with this? Simply that there can be an unwelcome cost.
The original meaning of comfort was to give strength (com+forte), encouraging those facing adversity, grief, and uncertainty, and enable them to keep going. I remember my parents greeting my tears and bloody knees with a little hydrogen peroxide and band aids, maybe a kiss to the wound, assurance I would survive, and a push back outside. Being seen and measured as okay by others re-established my equilibrium without teaching me to avoid danger, nor to consider accident and injury as a reason to stop.
This topic has a timely meaning for me. Having a big bad wolf of a diagnosis is best responded to with the empowering brand of comfort. I thrive with reality-based support, not “it’s all going to be okay” type of denial. Facing the possibility of death is no one’s idea of a joy ride, but I’m working on making it a springboard to being open to things fresh and exciting. It’s said that all forms of phobia, anxiety, including the fear of rejection, can be traced to the dread of dying, and if we can beat that, it’s a worthwhile cave to spelunk.
The image at the top of this page hangs on my office wall. “Life begins…” promises more than merely existing, hinting at adventures that take us somewhere we will be glad to have gone. Is it true? I believe that any poster’s wisdom ought to be questioned, but this one struck me as an important reminder when I bought it eight years ago, while on a mini-adventure. It runs counter to the strong pull toward full out—sinking-deep-into—sense of having everything we need. On occasion that is definitely my happy place, but is it to be trusted? I mean, a lot of bad habits exist within this arena, ones that will shock us into discomfort when we get on the scale, face lab results, peek at your partner’s phone, or realize we haven’t seen a movie in more than Covid years. This is the danger of complacency. Seeking only enjoyment and mere satisfaction of bodily wants and--for a minute--freedom from anxiety just can’t be enough all the time. For parts of my life, I craved nothing more. But this isn’t where we grow, nor ever be able to give back or pay forward.
My thesis is that there is a palpable difference between self-comforting and numbing out. One is a place to deliberately recoup energy, feel compassion for ourselves and others, and seek resources to be able to go forward in the face of hardships. The other is a version of oblivion, settling for mere coping with no expectation for joy. Death rehearsal. “Comfort eating/imbibing” is a horribly perfect example of the mixing up of these definitions. We ingest substances that we know cause self-harm, download brain-killing games, avoid a new challenge, and say we are easing our stress and unhappiness. Stupid stupid stupid. All right, it works for the moment, but absolutely does not restore and embolden. In truth? It undercuts courage and energy and smarts. It’s good to sloth a bit at an oasis while desert trekking on search for meaning; but numb is no place to build a retirement home.
As I was pondering this piece, an almost forgotten reference came to mind. A lifetime ago, an audiocassette tape fell into my hands, “The Four Major Addictions,” by Abraham Hicks. The first and strongest was to being comfortable, as in sticking with habits, a career, or relationships even when unfulfilling—or worse—destructive. He was speaking of the fear of change, the powerful force of Resistance that keeps us doing what we’ve always done, even when we don’t like the results. The other three, I hazily recall, addressed the need to change beliefs and relationships into ones that bring joy, and to leave a legacy for others. It is terrifying to leap, or be pushed, from the edge of the known, but I have found the view to be worthwhile. And I now am convinced that we can grow wings.
Back to the idea that as we age, we are less likely to want to go anywhere, try anything, or meet anyone new. That is a real choice, and if you are content with it, please forgive me for pulling you nine hundred words away from your preferred spot on the couch. But what if that is taken away? Or, what if you start saying yes to new experiences? However it happens, once you feel yourself falling, may you be greeted with the kind of comfort that encourages you to go back outside all bandaged up to play.
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