Last night I sat with discomfort. I poured him a glass of scotch, sat Indian style at his feet and listened to him tell tales of his Great Grandfather and how he ruled with a heavy hand. “Never budge,” he’d say. “Always stay firm and wound up. Resting is for the lazy.”
I slowly shook my head as to say that I felt for Discomfort. He saw me out of the corner of his eye and cleared his throat. “So,” he continued, “I never really learned to sit with myself.”
I knew this feeling, of sitting with discomfort. I was doing it now, but it had taken me years to get here. And some days still, when Discomfort walks in with his rough hands and lit cigar, I cower. But then I remember that he too needs company. And so I sit.
As the night went on, and the embers in the fire began to look like sleeping glow bugs, I realized that Discomfort had softened. Where a stern face used to rest was a jovial old man — a coarse laugh echoed off the cabin walls and I caught a glimpse of his blue eyes.
I stood up, said my goodbyes, and walked home.
How strange, I thought, to meet the man behind the wiggles. The get me out of here’s. The this sucks.
And yet all I could think about as I walked past tall trees and winds that kissed my cheeks