Getting Comfortable

I came home from school early today, bogged down by boogers and a blazing head, seeking the comfort of my couch.

My couch did not let me down.

Nor did Finn, my faithful hound who wedged himself between me and the couch cushions. Or the blanket I tossed over us, its weight oddly reassuring. Or the fire I revved up. Or the hot tea that soothed my throat.

We are, I believe, a species that needs comfort, wherever we find it. But I don't think we're alone in that need.

Take what happened this afternoon, when I tended to the birds, who were nosing the pathetic remains of the safflower-seed feast I'd left them the other day. As much as I love to feed the birds, I have grown to love lifting the lid of their seed container just as much.

Most days, I find a furry, grey friend tucked into the corner of the container, drunk on safflower, his movements slowed by too much of a good thing. I love finding a feasting mouse, even if I know I should think better about his presence.

Today, there were two mice, both quietly working their way through a pile of comfort food, mouse style. I tipped the container and gently shooed them on their ways, wondering if they realized that, had I skipped my visit to the seed container, they may very well have died there, my supply dwindling to near nothing.

I suppose we could all get so wrapped up in comfort that we overlook impending doom.

But it's just so darned...comforting.

When I took Finn out for his evening constitution tonight (a constitution this rebel spirit does not necessarily abide by), despite the lousy cold that was weighing me down, I was buoyed by the sound of clinking plates as Allison loaded the dishwasher, the warm kitchen light laying gently on the snow just outside.

Comfort comes in so many packages--the feel soft pajamas and warm water, the nudge of a loyal dog's nose, the scent of a candle as it first reaches your nose, the taste of savory soup as it first reaches our tongues. Perhaps comfort comes to all of our senses so that we, too, can come to our senses, grounded by the quiet steadiness of the small things in life.