Notes From the Sofa

The sofa and I are becoming a little too close. I suppose it’s a form of avoidance, but I’m beginning to feel some concern about how often I retreat to it. It’s almost a default position––too much input, and I lay low, head propped by pillows, nose in a book, often drifting into a nap. (I seem to have a real flair for napping, a newly discovered talent.) This is all rather benign, if not boast-worthy, but it’s a vaguely worrisome coping mechanism. Shouldn’t I be solving something? Working on something? Fighting back?

I still hold to Viktor Frankl’s credo: “Forces beyond your control can take away everything you possess except one thing–your freedom to choose how you will respond to the situation.” I want to respond to the current confluence of events with dignity, courage, and constructive deeds, and snoozing on the couch doesn’t fit the bill. But I don’t know what to do, and some of the developments we are witnessing make it very hard to muster up the necessary energy and attitude. Maybe the best course is to wait it out. Stay well, and don’t put others at risk. Follow the truth, vote the bastards out in November, and engage in the reimagining and rebuilding that must follow.

I’m tired…and fatigue fosters fatigue. But similarly, activity encourages activity. Yesterday I forced myself up and out and even got back on my bicycle. That was good. I grunted up a hill or two, and I didn’t tip over. The bike still delivers.

Flashback to my childhood days on Coney Island Avenue, learning to ride a two-wheeler. A neighborhood boy named Jack Milici ran behind me with his hand on the rear fender, promising he wouldn’t let go. I sailed to the corner, then turned my head, only to discover I had done it alone. Jack was far behind me—of course, he’d let go. I was angry at first, but it was a necessary lie. He was just a kid, but he understood that all I needed was momentum and confidence. He was my illusion of confidence until I abruptly learned that the one I should count on was me, sufficiently capable me.

Well, I’m glad no one ever tried to teach me how to swim that way, but the principle holds. A mentor can give you a start, but finally you have to figure it out, get the feel for it, and have enough faith in yourself to proceed. I thought about this as I lay on the sofa after my little bike ride yesterday. I also remembered that very often, the hardest part is just getting started, overcoming the inertia and turning it to motion. And movement promotes movement. And maybe I should get up.

It’s okay to shut down sometimes and lie on a sofa and watch how the lengthening angles of light slice the room, bleaching segments into pale hues of loneliness. It’s perfectly fine. I guess we just shouldn’t get stuck there.