Comfort

I love being comfortable. Sweatshirts, gym shorts, my bed, warm blankies, laying on the couch with friends and talking forever. I love being comfotable. When you're comfortable you're yourself. The real you comes out. No facades, no first-impressions, no effort really. It's wonderful. If I could be comfortable all the time I would. Home. Home is comfortable too. Or is it? As I've grown up, home (where my parents live) has been losing its comfort a little at a time. The air there gets a little thicker every time I go back. Why? Why has the place where I felt comfortable for so long, with the people I felt comfortable with for so long, now become like sleeping on concrete: uncomfortable. Well, the only conclusion I have reached is that relationships changed. Roles are different now. Im not a child. So the warm, fuzzy striped blanket I hid under as a child can't cover me now. And instead of sewing a new comfy quilt with my parents, so we can all fit under it, I've been trying to hang on to that old blanket; convincing myself that it's still sufficient. It's not.

Summer. That's what this summer is going to be about. Sewing a new quilt of comfort at home. Sure, I might poke myself with the needle a couple of times in the beginning but you can't have comfort without discomfort right? They need each other to exist. And I have magic thread now that I haven't had before: the love of Christ. I hear it's pretty durable. Picked it out at Hobby Lobby myself :) So let the sewing commence.

P.S.-Sorry for all the metephors, I was in a literary mood.