Comfort me with apples

Strengthen me with raisins, comfort me with apples, for I am faint with love.
Songs of Solomon

Some things are very hard to write about. Like the fear shadowing your mother’s face when she has been diagnosed with breast cancer.

So I thought I would write about the things that bring me comfort, instead.

The different kinds of hugs my family give are high on the list of comforts. Youngest daughter’s are infinitely gentle and delicate, very similar to her grandmother’s in fact. They convey peace, compassion and cherishing. Oldest daughter’s are similar to her father’s – warm, generous, strong and fiercely devoted. My father’s are squashily understanding and caring, my father-in-law’s are hard and dependable. An embrace is an expression of love more demonstrative of the character of that love than any other; a kiss is less intimate (apart from a lover’s kiss), a look can be misconstrued, words are even less dependable.

Despite that, friends’ words are definitely another sincere source of comfort. Close friends provide the scaffolding which keeps me upright in the storm, but even those I don’t see very often say wonderfully comforting things. Thank you, all of you.

But there are strange things that comfort me, too. Not in the same way, or in the same league – sport even. But these small moments of peace and pleasure from my world sustain me.

One lovely re-occurring moment is watching my beautiful dog bouncing joyfully through a colourful meadow, where we commonly take his walk. I know this sounds like a bad advert for toilet paper, but if you can imagine a setting ringed with old and ancient trees, green and mauve waving grass speckled with buttercups, violets and forget-me-nots, swallows circling over-head, and a particularly attractive golden Labrador-cross-golden retriever grinning from ear to ear, you can sense my little piece of heaven. No, I’m not saying where it is. Find your own.

Here’s a strange thing which consoles me. It’s a cup – more aptly a mug, but the word has such poor connotations, I don’t want to sully my drinking vessel with them. So, my cup was given to me by my mother, mostly because she had no shelf space for it. To be honest, it is more my kind of cup than hers. She prefers delicate china. My cup is solid, glazed earthenware. It fits snugly into my hand, keeping the heat inside where the tea is. The rim of my cup curves almost sensuously on my lip, and the weight of it is solid, utterly to be relied upon. It is soothing and dependable, and no-one else in the family would use it unless desperate. It is a pretty blue, and it bears the slogan ‘Comfort me with apples’. I was intrigued by this, so I looked it up, and it is one interpretation of a line from the Old Testament, found in the Songs of Solomon, verse 2.5. Isn’t it beautiful? Can you judge me for finding it comforting?

Chocolate is predictably comforting, not just for the pheromones or the sweetness or the calories. Chocolate – good chocolate – has an other-worldly taste. It is an escape from reality, a sensual departure from the stress of daily life. It is sex for the tastebuds. And although I am certainly no fan of Tesco, I have discovered an award winning chocolate bar from their Finest range which is mouth-orgasmic. It is called Organic Dominican Republic 70% Plain Chocolate, and it has the added comfort of being Fair Trade. Some people are cynical about the Fair Trade movement, but my buying power, limited as it is, is my only influence on the trade juggernauts of this capitalist world, and I intend to use it as much as possible. Even this tiny thing – the thought that an infinitely small amount of the money I spend will improve somebody’s outlook to a tiny degree – brings me comfort. For I am faint with love for the world and the people in it, and I take my comfort where I can find it.