On Comfort

It's one of the few times in my life when I realise that I am comfortable. It feels very strange, unexpected, and somehow undeserved.


Weather
I seem to be starting all my blogs with assessments of the weather, but, being British, I just can't help it. I am a product of the British weather. Even the uncomfortable, ever-changing, ever-so-slightly-colder than pleasant weather has been pleasant, sunny and welcoming lately. For longer stretches than usual. Even the forecast is another week of staight sunshine with a weekend of warm sun. This vaguely reminds me of time imemorial when most days were sunny, in Romania where I grew up. There is something very comfortable, and very satisfactory, in lying down on the sofa on a sunny day, reading a book, without feeling guilty that you are missing out the rare chance of basking in the sun outdoors. Because you know the sun will be there another day as well, so you can simply relax and enjoy seeing it outside through the window. There is a compulsion that I feel, as a Briton, to run out as soon as the sun is shining, and sunbathe or spend every minute of daylight in a park or walking on the sunny side of the pavement. A longer stretch of sunny days makes me relax and cast aside this compulsion.

There is also something more to this feeling of comfort. I am at a point in my life where the balance is near the point of equilibrium, where a lot of the oscillations have got quite small, after long periods of large and difficult swings.


Work
Work is calm and comfortable. I still like what I'm doing, after three years and a half, and I have a peaceful, constructive boss with a sense of humour. I can't ask for more. Right now it's slow, and boring. I like being busy, and usually if I'm not I find things to do to fill my time productively, but for now I feel as if I've exhausted all my ideas. Perhaps this is a blessing in disguise, as I can rest a bit and I can write at my blog, which wouldn't otherwise happen. And I know that when work picks up I'll dive right in with double the enthusiasm. This is something strange, but I prefer to be stretched, to feel the day rushing by and finish it knowing that there is still a lot left to do, however unsatisfying that feels, rather than watch time drag along at a snail pace. Like this, I find the comfort of little work disturbing. I wonder how security guards and country train station attendants spend their days. What goes on in their minds. How can they cope with so little to work on, so little to worry about. I'm not made for an easy job, I'm sure of that now. Not this kind of easy. I can see now that only something that is hard, busy, and keeps me on my toes is enough to give me satisfaction.

Why is it that a slow job feels uncomfortable? Is a job our main definition - something like I work, therefore I am? Is a job the main source of self-esteem? Then how can some people go on without working and still feel happy? Or is it that we just need to be active, productive, and this keeps us happy, something like a sport and daily exercise? I am not talking here about earning money - this is a separate topic altogether. I am merely talking of being engaged in regular, useful activity. I don't know about others, but for myself, I'm sure I like to be doing something useful, something that I can see contributes to something good.


Relationships
I am also in a phase of my life where I feel balanced and happy in a relationship. A stable, comfortable, predictable one, without much drama. A relationship that has been there reliably for the past year and a half. I have been longing for it, having gone through long-distance high-drama, highly virtual relationships. This is a relationship of quaint movie-watching, cooking, walks together, dinners and shows in town, the odd trip here and there. This is a comfort that I wonder at. It's the sort of normality I had come to believe I don't deserve, can't find and might as well give up hoping for. The comfort of companionship, of relaxing together, of needing no more than each other's presence to feel safe, wanted, calm. Sometimes not even presence, but just knowing that he is there, somewhere.

What is it that makes a relationship so simple? Why is it that the simple presence of my man in the house, pottering in a corner, makes me simply relax and feel completely at ease with anything in the world? Is it that I need to feel protected? Belonging to some sort of group? Wanted by someone? Or is it just because it's natural, the way we are meant to be?

Whatever the answers, I am just grateful for all my comfort, and I hope and pray it will keep going, with added interest, but remaining comfortable.