Yesterday I spent the afternoon rearranging my living room furniture. It’s arranged nicely enough for conversation but in the cold weather months it seems to far from the warmth of the fire. My idea was to make it come together tighter and closer to the fireplace.
I took all the decorations, books and magazines off of the furniture and dusted and polished before moving any of it. I lifted the heavy solid wood coffee table and slid towels under its feet and did the same with the end table. The couches already had footies on their legs so I could slide them all around. I have layered area rugs and I took them all out to be beaten and aired out on the deck. Then I swept and swept. I did this all while bawling my eyes out. At one point I stopped and just laid on the hard wood floor and cried.
Here is the real problem: I can’t find comfort. I’m not finding it in my mother, my husband, or my faith. (Well, sort of. I know, I know, I know that there will be an end and a reason for all of this. I am comforted knowing that I am in His hands even if I don’t feel it. I just know it’s true. I know I’ll be OK. Eventually.) There’s no comfort in meds or therapy. Getting lost in a book seems to help. Wine and solitaire on the computer are good. Basically, that’s all just ignoring it until later. I need audible and tangible comfort. I can no longer turn to the one who was bringing me comfort and so I am doubled over on the floor crying.
The new arrangement is not working. I’m going to put all of the furniture back where it was. It wasn’t a complete loss. I was able to sweep under all the couches, dust all the furniture and beat the dirt out of the rugs.