Discomfort, Master Teacher

We can’t be comfortable all of the time. It isn’t possible - or practical. I’d even go as far as to say that being comfortable isn’t the point of being here.

Earlier this year, I made a personal goal to be more engaged with and connected to the awe, wonder, and mystery of being alive. To achieve this, I vowed to participate in intellectual, physical, social, and spiritual activities that are outside of my current routine. I was stuck in a comfortable rhythm that was healthy and nourishing in some ways, but I felt like my growth was, as Meryl Steep in a Devil Wears Prada would say, “moving at a glacial pace.”

So, to keep my promise to myself and to celebrate four years of hard-won sobriety, I booked a ten-day solo-trip to the Big Island of Hawaii, a place I’d never been. A trip like this had always been out of reach for me, and I felt somewhat guilty about the privilege I had gained in my life that afforded such luxury. I am single with no children, and have work that takes care of my basic needs, and beyond. I also received a fellowship for my work in the nonprofit sector, and with it came the funds to pay for this trip. Still, the thought of a ten day trip to Hawaii for pleasure made me very uncomfortable. And the understanding that so many people would never have this opportunity made me wince and nearly cancel the trip several times. I was a Peace Corps volunteer, for God’s sake. Peace Corps Jami would never take a luxury trip - no matter who was footing the bill.

At long last, I decided that the time away would be good for me. I chose to receive the blessing of the funds, and vowed to learn as much about the native Hawaiian plight before I went (I highly encourage anyone who travels to the islands to do a little research before they go on indigenous communities and the threats to their sacred land).

During my stay on the island, I went from luxuriating for three days at a five-star resort, swimming on a private beach, satisfying every sweet and salty craving at the resort breakfast buffet, and resting my pampered head on pillows which could only have been inspired by cumulonimbus clouds -- to a no frills, middle-of-the-jungle bungalow which was one step up from my home in the Peace Corps (that one step was access to electricity, which was glitchy, at best).

My bungalow was perched at the nape of an organic farm that was owned and operated by a Japanese woman in her late eighties, a visual artist known as the Matisse of her homeland. The wild rows of fruit trees and chirping geckos stood in place of office buildings and doggy daycares; a hearthstone where the famed feminist artist could spend her remaining years on Earth. It was a simple, Buddhist, uncomfortable oasis, lacking in creature comforts like consistent warm water, paved roads, and doors and windows that shut. And, at first, I was only mildly happy to be there.

Early in the morning, I walked to the Zen-do and practiced yoga with the woman, her son, and daughter-in-law. I’ll admit that while I had been doing yoga every morning of my trip, my 6 am wake time was accompanied by some grumbling and child-like eye rubbing. She, the artist, the Buddhist, the senior citizen, had been up since 4:30 am meditating in the dark and cool island breeze. I had every intention of meditating with her, but my intention was foiled by sleepiness and the need to remain as comfortable as possible in my guest bed.

As I moved through the flow of early morning poses, I was fixated on watching my disciplined host twist and turn a body that had limited mobility into abstract shapes. Her plank was supported by knobby knees. Her warrior was like an old sea tree whose branches bent to find the morning sun. Her downward dog could only be held for a few moments before gravity won and she was forced to Earth, a sage in child’s pose, surrendering to the weight of it all. In short, this master teacher and bohemian wonder woman wasn’t comfortable. Not by a long shot. Her breath was hollow and waning, and her knees cracked throughout the entire practice (in fairness, mine did too). But her bones’ cries reverberated around the Zen-do - as if they were sounding the alarms.

No, she wasn’t comfortable. But she was content. After the 75 minute session ended, she turned to me and said, “These poses are hard. They hurt. But it’s good. Yoga helps.”

She went on to explain that she’s suffered two strokes, the most recent only a few months ago. As the session ended, I rolled her mat for her and gave her my arm as she rose from the wooden floor, and I couldn’t help but notice her smile as it masked her tremble. I found myself humbled in the presence of a woman, who, despite her physical ailments and aging body, makes the choice to live on the no-frills farm. A woman who continues to get down on her knees in her art studio to paint the goddess form of her youth; a woman who swats mosquitoes from her face, shoos chickens from her kitchen, and slowly makes her way from child’s pose to an upright position each morning.

When I arrived at the farm, I actually considered changing my accommodations to instead stay, ocean-side, at a nearby hotel. I had envisioned my last nights on the island as comfortable ones, and longed for the cloud pillows from my first few nights. But as the days went on, I thought of my new friend, and her reasons for choosing this level of uncomfortably in a world that sells us comfort around every corner. Her son explained to me that for them, the trade-off was “good health.”

Good health. Yes - I could see that in them. For me, the trade-off was growth.

There’s little room for personal development when we’re comfortable. We don’t learn that much about who we are or what we’re made of when we’re psychology and physically cozy and warm. All we learn is that some part of us enjoys ease (and that somewhere in the world they’ve found a way to turn clouds into pillows). Life can be hard. Ease is easy. Growth isn’t luxurious. Sometimes we have to choose which one we want more -- ease or growth. Sometimes, we have to make the choice to be uncomfortable.

When I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in Nicaragua in my early 20's, I was really uncomfortable for at least a year, and in some ways for the three years of my service. I lived without running water and electricity. I slept on a used cot. Just a pup, really, I had never been away from home, or my family and friends, who I missed terribly, and who were now very difficult to reach. Some of my relationships didn’t survive the distance, and I was lonesome for my culture, my language, and my comfortable surroundings.

I took cold bucket baths daily, even when the water was freezing (though sometimes my housemate would warm the water for me if the sun wasn’t up and I had to catch an early truck to the closest town . She did this for her son, too, but he was only five years old. She never warmed the water for herself.) I contracted a few bacterial infections; had a series of rashes on my legs that lasted for months; never totally knew if I was safe; missed my mom; shooed chickens out of my kitchen; swatted mosquitoes from my face; slept with a knife under my bed when I was alone and my host family was working the corn crops in Costa Rica; hauled 10 gallon bottles of water on my back from the bus stop to my front door; and went to the bathroom in some of the most unreasonable places one could imagine --including a public latrine with hundreds of living cockroaches. I was not comfortable. Not even close.

But damn if I didn’t learn more about who I am and what I am made of during those three years than I had up to that point. And knowing what I am made of helped see me through my Dark Night of the Soul, which came a decade after my time in Nicaragua ended. It would be impossible to list the many things I learned from my Peace Corps experience, and from my uncomfortable travels and trials since, though I imagine I’ll spend a lifetime trying to write them down.

On my last night on the island farm, as I stood next to the woman I had come to admire, a flash of green as the sun set on the ocean horizon caught me totally by surprise. “Was the sun just bright green?” I thought. Many believe that the green flash is only a myth. But I saw it. My new friend saw it too, smiled and told me how rare and special it was to see the natural phenomenon. She told me I was in the exact right place, at that exact right moment. Sure, I had bug bites and the mattress was stiff, and, of course, there was no bountiful breakfast buffet -- but there was, for a moment, a rare and beautiful flash that assured me that sometimes being uncomfortable pays off.

So, discomfort, master teacher, here are 29 things you’ve taught me (thus far).

1. I’ve learned that the body heals.

2. I’ve learned that scary noises are usually just avocados falling from trees, and not big, scary knife-wielding intruders.

3. I’ve learned that deep sleep is a good place to escape from scary, falling avocado noises.

4. I’ve learned that most bugs want nothing to do with you; especially big bugs. It’s the little ones you have to avoid.

5. Same goes for animals.

6. I’ve learned that you can hold your pee for a lot longer than you think -- especially when you’re on a bus, in the back of a pick-up truck, on a long hike, or on an airplane.

7. I’ve learned that it takes two nights in a new place for it to start to feel like home, or at least familiar.

8. I’ve learned that every place you stay -- the five star resort or the peace corps house -- has room for improvement. This includes your own home.

9. I’ve learned that you should pack what you want; you’ll only use half of what you brought, but there are worse things in life than a big suitcase.

10. I've learned that, more often than not, that big suitcase will arrive on time and in the right place. And when it doesn’t, life goes on.

11. I’ve learned that the hours in a day are very short or very long, depending on what’s on the other side of that time.

12. I’ve learned that every place has a store where you can buy the things you really need, even if they don’t have or have never heard of the things you want.

13. I’ve learned how far a car can really go on an empty tank of gas.

14. I’ve learned it’s best to arrive in a new place when the sun is out.

15. I've learned that dreams take on the energy and landscape of the place you’re staying

16. I’ve learned that work stress, relationship stress, and travel stress manifest differently in the body. It’s a good practice to know the difference.

17. I’ve learned that taking an outdoor shower can either be a magical or torturous experience, depending on the following circumstances: the temperature outside; the temperature of the water; the existence and cleanliness of a shower curtain; the amount of gunk (or absence thereof) on the shower floor; the drainage system (or lack thereof); bugs and spiders; how dirty you are.

18. I’ve learned that walking into a spider web is always a traumatic, eerie, and sticky experience, and that, once clean from the web, you’ll feel its phantom, lingering goo for about an hour.

19. I’ve learned that it’s always nice to have the option to lock your doors, and it’s especially nice when you don’t have to.

20. I’ve learned that roosters crow at all hours of the night, and not just when the sun rises.

21. I’ve learned that the scary thumping sound is just a falling avocado, or perhaps a wild boar. Either way, refer to #3.

22. I’ve learned that some fears aren’t really yours, but you still have to face them when they arise, and eventually release them back to their original source.

23. I’ve learned that, when scared, dip your toe in the water. Before you know it, you’ll be swimming.

24. And speaking of water, I learned that driving a boat in the middle of the ocean is exhilarating. Try it before you die.

25. I’ve learned that it's equally ok to make plans as it is to break them, so long as you have a good reason for doing either.

26. I’ve learned that I’m braver than I thought.

27. And stronger than imagined

28. I’ve learned that being content and being comfortable aren't the same thing.

29. And, finally (and not even close to finally), I’ve learned that growth is not comfortable, and that if you must choose one over the other, choose to stretch, rise, and expand. Choose growth.