Pollyanna Platitudes, Penance and
Chocolate
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I did a terrible thing. A generally
cheerful friend was in obvious pain. Be it emotional, physical, grief, imaginary—doesn’t
matter. Pain is pain. Pain twists one’s guts and simply must be passed through.
I hugged my friend, opened my mouth and out rolled a blah, blah, blah, blah,
useless platitude. I cringed while speaking the words. But once out, there was
no cramming the words back where they originated.
I hate myself for that. I know
better. When I’m hurting I want someone, anyone, to fold me into their arms. I
want a heart-felt hug. I don’t want to hear, “Oh, Honey, time will erase the
pain.” Or, “Perhaps what happened was for the best.” Or, “Better to find out
now than later.” Or—any one of a million other well-meant platitudes.
Platitudes might even hold an edge of truth. But when I’m in
pain, I want neither platitudes nor truth. Comfort me with silence. And chocolate.
That’s me. “Why?” you ask. “We mean well.”
Yes, I believe you. I meant well when the useless cliche
automatically rolled off my tongue. We learned these commonplace banalities
honestly, probably at mother’s knee. We use them when at a loss for words, when
we want to be helpful, and sincerely want to give comfort. Try chocolate
instead. Not just any chocolate. Designer chocolate.
My theory, not substantiated at all,
is that platitudes come from a place of smug righteousness. “Well, I’ve been
through something like that and I know what to do.” Or, “I’m so glad it’s you
and not me. Dodged that bullet.” Or, “I can’t wait to spread this tidbit of news. So we can comfort
you, of course.” Stinks, doesn’t it?
Enough of my rant. For me (and hopefully, for you) it is
better when I acknowledge your sorrow, and keep my lips zipped. So, what got
into me that day? I wanted to rip out my tongue.
Hence, guilt. Also useless. Hey, I
grew up in the Catholic Church. I know how to do guilt. I spent a day mea
culpa-ing all over the place.
Chocolate can heal guilt too, by the
way.
So that’s my guilty story of the
comfort I failed to give. Once I quit beating myself I turned to another kind
of comfort—my lovely king-size goose-down comforter.
Winter is on the way—I say this when
it is 80 F. this afternoon. I’m told nights are in the 40’s in December and
January and houses aren’t heated in this southern country. It is toasty warm by
mid-morning, so why spend money on heat?
My problem is that my down comforter
is huge and laps across the floor in all directions when I plunk it onto my
double-size bed. This is a problem I can fix with action: scissors, needle,
thread and time. I hauled my comforter and a box of straight pins out to the
patio and cut off the outer section all the way around. The bedding is
constructed in such a way that the perimeter was (mostly) stitched and could be
down-sized, pun intended, losing feathers only on the throw-away section
(mostly).
To finish my comforter, I’ll roll a
hem and secure it with a blanket stitch, by hand. It will take several days. I
don’t mind. Hand work is meditative. Penance for platitudes?
It’s justice. It’s kismet. It’s
fate. It’s the way it’s meant to be. It happens for a reason. It’s God’s plan
for me. Life has not given me more than I can handle. Blah, blah, blah. And so
on.
Stitching the perimeter of a comforter, each working of the
needle and thread, through, up and around, might help remind me that it is not
my business to be one of Job’s comforters.
Hugs, your presence, a hot dish and goose down. All provide
me comfort. Don’t forget the chocolate.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
November 10,
2016
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