I don't know what it was about this week.

There were memory layers, like gauzy sheets of onion paper covering the flat, hard surface of the NOW. Three years ago, this was the week where I gave up foolish optimism and realized that my dear friend Terri was going to die---that there was no last-minute reprieve, no Hallmark movie miracle waiting in the wings.

That was a hard realization and it left stains that still spread, and I notice them more vividly, this time of year.

And last year, of course, and the year before that, we were locked down and terrified; the new virus was changing life as we had always known it, with the rifts in society drying up and cracking deeper as another loathsome result. Those memories spread themselves on top of the Terri-thoughts, thin, brittle, uneasy.

And this year, my mother's 100th birthday fell right into this unsettled time, a day like the buckle on a Pandora's box, opening up to a big, yarny, tangled mass of memory.

So there was that: memories soaked with sadness, fear, anger, and the unknown. That might have been why this week was the way it was.

Also, people I knew were visited by sudden and debilitating illness---illness that will, with care and right practice, get better, but that was also a little bit scary for the ones right in its path.

The weather roiled---from three inches of snow to 71 degrees in four short days; winds blew, and clouds scudded and gathered, and then the sun pierced through, sharp and bright. Sweet gum pods flew from the tree in the front yard, bouncing and skittering.

The time changed, and when I left the gym just before seven, it was no longer bright, no pinking of the sky.

"Back to darkness," moaned the mournful voice, the Eeyore voice, that speaks from a little broadcast chamber in the bony cavern.

And, of course, there is that war.

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This week I had odd dreams, unsettling ones, dreams that woke me up, sat me upright, sent me downstairs at 4 a.m. to start the day. The voices, the tones, the threat in those dreams stayed right with me, all day long, scary little awareness clouds.

Later in the week—last night, in fact—I had GOOD dreams, the kind I don't like to end, the kind that make me disappointed to watch, on waking up, lovely dream fragments dissipate into frail, wind-rent bubbles. Of course, I couldn't remember a single detail of THOSE dreams---just the warmth and contentment they engendered.

I hope those feelings stuck, too, that they are buried somewhere deep, maybe, but accessible when I need 'em.

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Oh, there was nothing terribly different this week---no emergencies or crises---but there was a cluster of uncertainty.

And I said to myself, this week, that what I needed was some comfort.

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I bet each of us could clearly define what comfort means, and each of us would say different things.

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Once when I was a young professional, I was in a leadership group, and we took a very official kind of paper and pen test to see what motivates us. We got the results back at a meeting; they came in sealed manila envelopes. The facilitator stopped us from opening them.

"First," she said, "I want everyone who believes they are motivated by people and relationships to stand on this side of the room. And everyone who believes they are task-oriented and motivated by accomplishment go to THAT side."

I stood up and walked with well over half of my peers to the 'people and relationship' space. I mean, I thought, come on. That's what my whole career and personal life has been ABOUT, right?

And then of course, we went away to privately open our envelopes and read what our assessments told us.

And mine told me that I am accomplishment-driven---not just a little, not just in some certain circumstances, but all the way. All in. The report told me that, clearly and without question, I liked to get things DONE.

That was, for a bit, a bitter pill. Seriously? How could I not know this about myself?

But as I read deeper into the literature, and as I thought about what I read, I realized that being motivated by completing tasks did not mean being uncaring or unmoved by other people. Doing the jobs, the chores, completing the projects—well, all of that benefited other people.

And there was my nightly habit of unspooling the day, thinking, "Well, I got this, this, and THIS done, but I didn't finish THAT…"

I like to accomplish things, I like to finish tasks, I like to cross entries off my To Do list.

It's a comfort to me. So this week, I did some of that.

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Early Monday morning, awake way too soon, I pulled out a crisp piece of lined paper and made a list, day by day, for the week. And I made myself a list of chores to tackle, splitting them between each day.

And all this unsettled week, I followed my list and completed my chores.

And by Friday, with a week's worth of completion behind me, I was starting to feel better.

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And this week, too, I thought I'd wrap up in a knitted blanket and sit in the reading chair and fall right into a good book—a good couple of hours' plunge in the quiet after-dinner hours. I was almost finished with This is Getting Old, a book of essays by Susan Moon, a Zen Buddhist who teaches writing workshops, worries about aging, and is older than I am. She shows herself, in the essays she writes about losing her mother and raising her kids and loneliness and solitude and awareness, to be not perfect, but striving. Those essays were a comfort, to be sure, but they were coming up on DONE.

I went to the To Be Read pile I keep on one side of my mother's old treadle sewing machine, and I sorted through the stack.

Not one of them was a comfort book. Each one of them was a naggy, SHOULD book. So, this week, I gave myself permission to decimate my To Be Read pile. I put the books back on my own shelves or returned them to the library to be put on their shelves.

And then I restocked. I monopolized the reserve librarians' time at the library, requesting some mystery books that take place in England and in which the most horrible things can happen, but where the characters I care about go home to neat flats or charming homes, to welcome quiet or to beloved bustle. In those books, the food is wonderful and the comfort comes in understanding, hugs, and steaming mugs of tea in thick ceramic mugs.

I reserved Elizabeth Berg's Tapestry of Fortunes, maybe the only one of her novels I have not read, and let me tell you, Berg writes comfort like no one else. Her characters may be fragile or faltering at times, they may be bereft and betrayed, but they always know what steps to take to succor themselves. In a Berg book, I taste the wonderful meal, appreciate the hand-woven textiles, go and grab my favorite mug so I can take tea with the main character. And, thinking about the 100th anniversary of my mother's birth, I also asked for Berg's memoir of her parents, I'll Be Seeing You.  

I requested a Fannie Flagg book I haven't read, a Rosamunde Pilcher tome, and the next in a mystery series by Ariana Franklin. And because my library doesn't have them, I ordered myself used copies of the next two Lord Peter Wimsey mysteries.

The next day I picked up all the library books and made myself a new TBR stack. And I want to read every single book in that pile; none of those books nag me with 'shoulds.'

Having a stack of books I want to read is a comfort, too.

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Then I cooked. There is a valid reason we call some dishes comfort food. This week, I stirred up a batch of gluten-free pancake batter, and some mornings, I got up, went to the gym, and then came home to make myself crispy, sizzling pancakes.

One night I made a chicken pot pie from a wonderful recipe. And, for the first time in my life---because I did not feel like mixing up pie crust dough,--I went to the store and BOUGHT refrigerated pie crusts, ready to roll out.

The pot pie was GOOD. The crust was good, too,--maybe not as flaky as my homemade recipe, but I could taste the time saved in every bite. That was delicious.

And one morning I got up and had leftover chicken pot pie for breakfast.

The pot pie had the added benefit of using up refrigerator leftovers---peas and corn, carrots and cooked potatoes. Using things up always make me feel better, so today, James and I went to the store and bought the sharing size bag of Rolo candies.

I had three-fourths of a bag of miniature pretzels on top of the fridge in a basket. I ripped a sheet of parchment paper and covered a cookie sheet, and then I filled that cookie sheet with perfect, unbroken, little pretzels. I stood at the counter and unwrapped Rolo's, and when I had the exact amount, I put one candy right in the center of each pretzel.

Then I carried the tray VERY carefully, so as not to jog the Rolo on each pretzel out of place, to the oven, and I baked them at 250 degrees for four minutes. They came out oozey and smelling like hot milk chocolate and caramel.

I pushed an M and M into the sticky center of each Rolo, and now those treats are cooling, firming up. Tonight, after a dinner of corn-flake-crumb-coated pork chops, after a salad made with then slices of Granny Smith apple and pecans and asiago cheese and crisp artisan lettuce,  I will eat three of those Rolo treats. They are sweet and they are salty; they are chewy and they are crunchy.

They are SO good.

They are comfort food, and I am going to eat some with no guilt at all.

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I suspect that you may read my list of comforts and think, "Meh." And I know that deep problems can't be unraveled by a flurry of organization, by immersion into a lovely book, or by eating something yummy.

But there is something to be said, when days are challenging, for practicing self-care,--for being as nice to ourselves as we would be to someone else.

Sue Moon writes, "I'm accustomed to taking care of other people, but taking care of myself turned out to be a satisfying project, too, as if an exchange student, who happened to be me, had come to live with me for a month. I saw that she deserved to be taken care of, maybe even for more than a month."

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I used to teach a NAMI course for care-givers of people living with mental illness. My co-teacher had an analogy for those who felt guilty or ashamed about needing some time for themselves.

"If you're on an airplane," she'd say, "and there's an emergency situation, you don't run around making sure everyone else's oxygen mask is in place. FIRST, you get your own mask on. You can't help other people when you can't breathe yourself."

Some days, some weeks, some months or years, even, our spirits cry out for comfort. We should no more ignore those cries than we would let a baby scream or a loved one suffer alone.

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Not all the week's problems have been solved, but each day, things looked a little bit better. Each day I felt a little more capable.

There's something to be said, I think, not for pleading, "Gimme comfort," but for going out and finding comfort, for providing it, myself.