The Pursuit of Comfort

I went to see "The Secret Life of Walter Mitty" today. In a season of high quality and diverse Oscar contenders, this film, with all it's hype and promotion, fell a little flat at the box office and in popular consideration. But I was craving a celluloid fix - although of course it's all digital now - and I had enjoyed the scenery in the previews and I like Ben Stiller. 

The film opened at the discount theater this weekend, after just a few weeks of its release. Picking the early matinee to keep my afternoon free, I was the only one in the theater. Settling in, I prepared to be whisked away in a fictional world.

The film itself is no award winner, but some of the scenery is fabulous - Greenland, Iceland, the Himalayas - and Ben Stiller and co-star Kristin Wiig create characters that the audience roots for. The message of the film - that we should overcome our fears and adventure out into this huge, glorious, unpredictable world - is obvious and overstated, as is the grotesquely visible and drawn-out product placement for a well-known pizza chain, but the experience is overall pleasant and enjoyable. 

Films, however, like all literature, often surprise their audiences with unexpected emotions or themes, based on each member's need, level of personal evolution, or distinct worldview. And this one blind-sided me with a custom-made message, delivered with all the subtlety of a freight train: how is it that we've become a culture of individuals who seek comfort and ease above experiencing the entirety of this existence? 

Now I'm not above comfort-seeking with my cell-phone virtually attached for convenience, my well-furnished kitchen with a gadget for any possible contingency, my comfortable king-sized bed, my late-model CR-V, and too many other comforts and conveniences to mention. But I have, over the past few years, been weaning myself from this perceived need. 

Having once spent a year creating a 4000 square foot Victorian dream house with a room for almost every possible use and as many bathrooms as inhabitants, I now, after four moves, live in about 800 square feet. I remember declaring to my ex-husband, as my southern-raised-self weathered these unfamiliar frigid winters here in the upper Midwest, that I would set the thermostat wherever I needed to to stay comfortable, regardless of the cost to either our energy bill or my carbon footprint. Today, I turn the temperature to 60 when I leave the house and I never set it above 68, keeping a blanket and space heater close for use when my toes get cold. 

After years of declaring I'd only camp if I had access to a microwave and a toilet, when I travel now, I try to tent camp if the weather is warm enough, even though it's a lot of work to set up, take down, and organize a campsite night after night. Climbing up from a two-inch mattress covering the cold ground creates awareness of my not-so-young joints and muscles, and building a fire, preparing and cooking my meals before I can eat is more work than stopping at a fast-food restaurant, but I've grown to not only manage the added work involved but also to enjoy it. 

I choose to spend my leisure time hiking, climbing, and often carrying a 40-pound pack in steep terrain. These pleasures have nothing to do with pursuing comfort and have everything to do with pursuing the joy of existence. Although I've uttered profanities to myself while struggling up a seemingly unending incline, I wouldn't trade the pain and effort for a cushier pastime. And I don't only eschew comfort in my vacation time. 

I've modified my life in many ways, foregoing comfort for frugality until it's become part of my identity. I'm constantly looking for ways to economize more, both for my budget and for the good of the planet. Yes, it's inconvenient to wash out any recyclable containers I empty when I eat my packed lunch so I can carry them back home to put in the recycling. Yes, it's uncomfortable to weigh the gas I'll use to run an errand with the inconvenience of waiting and consolidating trips, but the rewards are high for this kind of conscious living. 

But conscious living is not the norm here in the heartland - or, I would posit, in the rest of our country. Our culture's never-ending quest for comfort, convenience, and ease has somehow led us down a dark and irresponsible existence. We pursue money - the means by which we purchase comfort - above all else, often at the cost of time for ourselves or with those we love. We make our educational decisions based on what will prepare us for a high-paying job, not on what will prepare us to do what we love more effectively or to make a difference in the world. We spend at least 40 hours a week chasing that good paycheck not only to sustain ourselves and our loved ones, but also so we can have the latest new gadget or style of shirt. 

And I wonder, what have we given up in this pursuit of comfort? I have discovered in the last few years that during the years I pursued a life of escalating ease, I often gave up living my life. I never knew the joy that a cold walk through the mountains, pushing myself physically and emotionally, could bring. I never knew the satisfaction of opening a utility bill and smiling at the money I saved by wearing a sweatshirt in the evening instead of a t-shirt. I never knew that making decisions based on what I wanted, not how comfortable I'd be, would free me up to live a life I never imagined. 

So for me, today, I try to notice where I, like Walter Mitty, am giving up living my life for comfort, ease, and avoiding some perceived risk. And I try to choose what will feed my soul, not what will make me the most comfortable. And that, as my friend Robert Frost says, has made all the difference.

Inside the Eye

The eye of a hurricane is a place of quiet, of power, of wholeness, holding steady and sure while the world spins around, out of control and taking victims with its flailing tail. Life often feels that way too - the out-of-control part anyway. I've come to discover, however, that finding the eye is not deadly business, even though it may feel that way. 

Perhaps the journey to reach that eye is a bit like the middle stage of Joseph Campbell's heroic journey - the road of trials. It often involves a bit of struggle, a bit of pain, and a concerted effort to push on when all hope seems lost. But it is the only way to reach the reward, the boon of awakening from the dream, the eye of the hurricane. 

There are no shortcuts - at least none I've found. Perhaps staying focused on the goal will facilitate its attainment, but even that offers no promise. Monks have chanted, sat, and meditated for years before (if ever) reaching Nirvana, and one can't get much more focused than dedicating one's life to practice. In fact, the rareness of attainment in monks perpetuates the idea that one must search for years, becoming ascetic, abstaining from the material and carnal pleasures of the world. 

That said, I have found that awakening is an eye-blink away, ready to fall upon us like unexpected good news. As my friend Greg Nooney says, we're always two seconds from awakening. I'd say we're always already there, but we just don't know it. 

I can say this with authority. I have had moments, moments I fully awake from the dream and I know who I am at the core of my being. I am enlightened - for a moment. I can remember a few of them clearly - those experiences that lasted minutes or hours instead of seconds. The reality of that awareness stands in stark contrast to the all-too-common somnambulism of my life. 

I no longer find this state of enlightenment, of awakening, some distant goal to be chased and yearned for, but rather my natural state - one that I can drop into with just a little bit of inquiry. In fact, its accessibility reminds me of the months and years following some pretty heavy acid use. We called them flashbacks, those times we could start tripping without the drug by conjuring up the memory of the taste or sensation of the hallucinogenic, and after some bad trips, I avoided trips down that specific memory lane whenever possible. But this ability to drop into awareness, while the process is similar in some ways, involves nothing of the fear. It's a journey home each time, a sudden recognition of who and what I am. 

So what do I find there, at the eye of the hurricane that is my life? While words cannot do justice to the reality of our authentic selves, it's all we have when trying to convey it. We have beautiful descriptions from sages, saints, and, maybe surprisingly, screenwriters. Alan Ball has given us some of the best: 

Lester Burnham's voiceover at the close of the film American Beauty is a beautiful description: 

. . .I guess I could be pretty pissed off about what happened to me – but it’s hard to stay mad, when there’s so much beauty in the world.  Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once, and it’s too much, my heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst . . . and then I remember to relax, to stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life (amused)  You have no idea what I’m talking about, I’m sure.  But don’t worry . . . You will someday (Ball 97 – 100). 

And from the same film, when Ricky Fitts is describing his epiphany gained from watching a plastic bag on a windy day, just before snowfall: 

It was one of those days when it’s a minute away from snowing.  And there’s this electricity in the air, you can almost hear it, right?  And this bag was just – dancing with me.  Like a little kid begging me to play with it.  For fifteen minutes.  That’s the day I realized that there was this entire life behind things, and this incredibly benevolent force that wanted me to know there was no reason to be afraid.  Ever – Sometimes there’s so much beauty in the world I feel like I can’t take it – and my heart is going to cave in (60). 

I'm not sure I can add much to these, but I will say it's as if I suddenly know, not just intellectually but also emotionally and experientially, that all the world, all of this existence, is simply a playground for learning, for awakening to my true nature. And the most lovely part of this realization - it is your playground too. While I am the hero of my journey, and all of you, all of this life, are simply the helpers on that journey, you too are the hero of your journey. Your life, along with those of us in it, is there to serve your awakening, as perfectly as mine is there for me. As Shakespeare said so prophetically: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts." 

I've found there are no extras in this life. The worth of every single individual is the same - from the least among us to the most. From the most generous to the most heinous. No exceptions. And in a world like that, how could any of us possibly have anything to lose as we navigate the storms of our own personalized hurricanes? 

So I look forward to meeting you there, Inside the Eye, when we know, without a doubt, there there is absolutely nothing to fear, nothing to lose, in this thing we call our lives.