Dis/Comfort Zones
By the time you read this I will be heading northward for six days on a river run on the Salmon River in Idaho. I’m going with my husband who has done this before. We will be led by worthy and experienced boatmen*. We will not have access to wifi or computer connections. My clothes and supplies are sorted and packed. Insect repellent, lotion, sunscreen – check, check and check. I’m anticipating glorious vistas. I’m praying for decent weather.
Having just read that opening paragraph which of the following most resembles your reaction?:
- Wishing you could go with me on a bold new adventure just like this!
- Already planning or recently returned from some equally rigorous several day outing with folks you love. So exciting and rejuvenating!
- Grateful to stay home with your routines, your networks, and your familiars. Not your cup of herbal tea.
- “Quit bragging about your privilege. I’m tied to my lousy job/troubled kids/objectionable spouse … and there’s no respite or escape.”
There are probably other reactions.
If your reaction is #4, I feel for your desperation and hope things improve for you. I am trying to be a good steward of my blessings – which also include witnessing close-up nearly terminal cancer in the family; family genetics which predispose me and my children to depression or anxiety; a childhood with a neuro-muscular disease which kept me out of physical activity/PE until my adult years.
And yes, each of those experiences I consider “blessings.” It’s an attitude thing.
Meanwhile, I’m focusing on a different issue: how permeable are our comfort zones?
If your answer falls on 1, 2, or 3, wrestle with me a bit on this issue of what appeals, what appalls, and the attitude (aptly) of “Whatever floats your boat.” How flexible are those constraints?
My personal idea of a “great time” is binding a quilt with an audible book in my ears, or going to see a play on stage, or an excellent movie in a theater, or an especially well curated art exhibit, or to hear Billy Collins share his poetry or Bonnie Raitt sing her blues.
I love traveling to and learning about other cultures – but with decent (though not lavish) accommodations. (I’m thinking of the fine tents I slept in in Tanzania where I was awakened in the morning by a friendly “Jambo!” I would have preferred slightly better plumbing facilities, however.)
Most of what thrills me doesn’t require a lot of burned calories.
My spouse is and has always been a fitness buff. Give him some heavy weights to lift, some rapids to navigate, some wood to chop – and he is (literally) a happy camper. He’s the one who will launch the grandkids into athletic challenges and fast, wild rides. I bring out the playdough, the glue sticks, and all the Caldecott winning picture books.
Going with him on this trip is a gift of love – despite the ripples of angst, the fears of the unknown, the physical ineptitude I’m all too aware of. Part of my brain expects this upcoming adventure will rate as an exquisite joy and move me to unspeakable awe.
Part of me wants to pull up the covers and sink into a deep week long sleep.
I keep reminding myself of all the calming affirmations I have in my brain’s back-up drive. Normally they drift through my mind like soothing cough drops for the soul. Right now the battle continues as affirmation and terror duke it out.
I am a firm believer that genetics has something to do with it. My spouse hails from pioneer stock who settled the Salt Lake Valley and migrated as converts from Scandinavia. Strong. Husky. Active Paul Bunyan types.
I, too, hail from Scandinavian and North Atlantic folk. The kind that like quilting; hand sewing; complicated fiddle music; singing and dancing around a Maypole.
Tell me I’m not the only one who has wrestled with competing comfort zones for the sake of love. Tell me your stories! I’ll gobble them up… as soon as I have internet connection again!
*(For what it’s worth, it is expected and accepted by both males and females to be called a “boatman”.)
