Three Comforts to Take Us Into a Chillier, Darker Season

Every so often, the weekend linguist in me goes poking around in word etymologies. Which is how I learned that the verb to comfort arrives to us from the Old French meaning, among other things, “to strengthen.”

It makes a good kind of sense, doesn’t it? It’s hard to feel strong if we are scared, worried, unsteadied.

Comfort, then, can ferry us from fear to strength. And given that our democracy could use a little less fear and a whole lot more strength, comfort seems in order.

For you, three comforts that I hope find you where you need them most.

Warmth
There is an old adage my hearty Maine relatives remind me of: “There’s no bad weather, just bad clothing choices.”

When I’m cold, I can be a royal grump. Impatient, unpleasant, singularly focused on getting back inside to warmth.

As Parker Palmer wrote of both seasonal and emotional winters, they "will drive you crazy until you learn to get out into them.” So I’ve decided to get myself out into this winter.

I got a fleece-y, floppy hat in Edinburgh, a city that knows something about long, dark seasons. At Costco, I found a sleeping bag of a jacket. I picked up a reflective vest from the hardware store and found an exceedingly bright headlamp for when darkness starts nibbling at the day’s edges around 4pm.

And while I look like a neon orange marshmallow wearing a searchlight when I’m out walking my dog – “How very high visibility of you” a neighbor called to me one evening – I’m also warm enough, comfortable enough to be a little more generous and patient.

I gave far too detailed directions to a driver who was lost. I helped a neighbor look for his dog who darted when a pizza in the oven triggered the smoke alarm. I cleaned up and refilled the old bird feeder with sunflower seeds and peanuts.

Nothing radical. But when we’re warmer, kindness is a little more accessible. And history has yet to record a democracy brought down by an excess of kindness.

Stamps + Paper
Most every home has a few non-negotiable items. For my mum, it was candles. For one friend, it’s loose leaf tea. For another, it’s good olive oil. For me, it’s stamps and paper.

I can’t tell you the number of times a loving letter has restarted my day. I use them as bookmarks, stick them on the fridge, put them in a rainy day drawer to be reread when I need a lift. And how wonderful that a few handwritten lines could change someone else’s day, too.

The key to letter writing seems to be the key to everything: flatten the obstacles.

• Have stamps and paper on hand. No need to be fancy; one of the loveliest notes I’ve gotten was Bic pen on printer paper.
  
• I learned from a friend, a busy mother and long-time letter writer, that a note need be no more than one line to be wonderful. “Thinking of you and wanted you to know” or “Haven’t told you lately how terrific you are.”
  
• Find mailboxes near your regular haunts. My grocery store has one right by the exit. And there is a special jolt of satisfaction dropping a letter down into that slim little blue slot.

If a day is going south for me, I can always take comfort in knowing that a letter I’ve written is en route to someone I love.

Bedtime
I find few places more comforting, more terrific than a library. “I’ve always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library,” wrote Jorge Luis Borges.

If I’m feeling uneasy, one of my go-to comforts is ordering books from the library. Just the other evening, I requested books on dog training, improv, and attention; the new Thomas Pynchon (yes, he’s still at it!) and a good old-fashioned whodunit.

There’s a sweet comfort to knowing you have a good library book to look forward to when tucking into bed on a cold night, even if you only get a page or two deep before conking out.

A few books so compelling, I read until the darkest, coldest part of the night:

The Berry Pickers by Amanda Peters. A young Mi’kmaq girl goes missing from a family of blueberry pickers. A fascinating story, well told.

The God of the Woods by Liz Moore. Disappearances at a summer camp in the Adirondacks - I couldn’t believe how fast I sped through these 400+ pages.

All the President’s Men by Bob Woodard and Carl Bernstein. As fresh, fast, and relevant today as it was in 1974.

Books are filled with insights, chuckles, translatable wisdom (here’s how the Oklahoma City Thunder's General Manager used author Robert Caro’s wisdom to drive OKC’s success).

And talking books is such a warming joy - I couldn’t believe he did it! Did you see that coming? She was a true piece of work - to share in pages that someone else has also turned.

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I was at the gym when a friend took a real fall. The EMTs were called. While we waited, one woman checked the friend's pulse (fine), another called the friend’s husband (worried), another gathered the friend’s things.

Unsure what to do, I took my friend’s hand into my own. It felt impractical, a little silly. The EMTs came, did all they needed to do, she was taken to the hospital. I finally felt useful when I could drop my friend’s bag off at her house.

But then, something unexpected. Days later, my friend - who wonderfully turned out to be just fine - sent me a letter: Thank you, she wrote, for holding my hand. I felt less alone.

Comfort, it turns out, can have more power than we think.