And the way I’ve been thinking about the idea of ‘comfort’ dear reader, about feeling comfortable ‘with where we’re at’, and also about not getting too comfortable with we’re we’re at, because I know I shouldn’t do that, I mean, shouldn’t feel too comfortable, right?
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And the idea made itself comfortable in my mind as I stood staring into the refrigerator, searching for something in there that would, well, you know, make me a little less, uncomfortable.
I saw some green grapes gravitating toward me and so I ate two of them. They were succulent and sweet and so I stayed there, door open, the penguins pouring out, and ate a bunch more.
And for a moment, I was quite comfortable, with where I was at...
But as I turned away from my chilled cabinet of desires, I espied the Everest like mound of laundry calling to be laundered, the administration of the house waiting for an administrator, and the wardrobe which had become a floordrobe - and my grape induced comfort evaporated.
And comfort, psychological ease, can be a bit like that: ephemeral, changeable, tenuous. It comes and goes.
I have long since accepted the truth that life is in many ways defined by pain; by an aching, bitter-sweet compromise between the sheer pleasure of living and being, and the reality of living, and dying. The uncomfortable truth that the ones we love, that we, all of us, eventually, go away ...
And it pokes me on the shoulder dear reader, sneaks up on me here and there - when at night, I look up at the stupendous magnificence of the stars, my wide-eyed amazement can, in an instant, become an uncomfortable and aching understanding that this, all this, cannot, will not last ...
But no sooner does the uncomfortable thought make it self comfortable, and it is vanquished, slain, and defeated by the touch of a little hand, the sound of a voice that says, “dad, are you okay?”
And of course I am. For here, in this realm, by this river, on this floodplain sweet and green, I can assuage the darkness and discomfort of ‘knowing’. I can live and be, despite that uncomfortable truth, because is where I learnt to breathe ...
And for the wise, comfort comes in the simple joys of being: in the sight of the morning fog, in the feel of soft rain, in the river bending and winding its way to Newcastle and the ocean, in the curve of High Street facades, in a child’s song, a lovers smile...
And when last week I walked beside the river, when I stood in the centre of the Belmore Bridge, my own blood ran happy and glad to be there - my discomfort scattered, sent on the tide down to the wide wide sea…
And so it goes. Goodnight.
