What brings comfort?
For everyone a different answer arises. For some, it’s food. Some it’s shopping. Others choose more destructive paths of drugs or alcohol. Some turn to art, music, movies…writing. Or even something as simple as visiting with friends or wrapping yourself up in a fluffy blanket while drinking hot cocoa…..with the little marshmallows, of course.
I know I’ve used a few of these, although I’m still wondering how well they work. I will find the saddest movies on my shelf and watch them in a dark room with just the critters and a box of Kleenex as company. Or many times I will create a playlist of songs that fit my dark mood (or sometimes just one song) and I’ll listen to nothing else for days.
Often I find the overwhelming urge and desire to create….something. And sometimes I have. In a time of immense grief and pain some months back, I found words that were asking to be written. They harassed me incessantly, constantly plagued my waking mind until I had three new poems. Ironically, poetry isn’t more forte by any stretch of the imagination and I hadn’t written any since a single one over twelve years ago.
At times I’ve wished to play music or draw, but I find that I’m not well practiced in either one and so those attempts don’t bring the soothing that I long for. But words…words I know. Words, through the years, have become familiar to me as I tinker with them, try to make sense of and with them, shape them into something beautiful.
The routine has become comfortable. Sitting with the notebook computer on my lap while typing or scrawling words on paper with a cheap pen cauterizes my emotional wounds. It gives me closure. It gifts me with a way to say things I never got a chance for, that I couldn’t find the words for at the time. Or the ones I never had the courage to voice.
And so I continually turn to the proverbial pen, continue my routine with the self therapy I’ve begun, and find my own comfort in expression.