Friend and Foe

Last September I enrolled in a NOLS Wilderness First Responder class held at Valle de Oro National Wildlife Refuge in Albuquerque’s South Valley. For one exercise, in teams of three, we went out to the concrete sidewalk to practice a skill, with one person playing patient lying on the ground while the other two practiced whatever it was. Ants were everywhere, the kind that bite. Having been bitten before by these little buggers, I can say it hurts more than I ever imagined and made me ache well into the next day. I’ve felt rather hostile toward ants ever since.

Designated patient first, I wasn’t going to lie down until I swept the area for ants, and with my fingers and shoe, I started my killing spree. One of the refuge’s rangers was in the course and in our threesome, and they gasped and said, “Don’t kill them! This is a wildlife refuge.”

At first I thought they were joking. Nope. This was a reprimand. I was deeply embarrassed and sufficiently chastised. I glanced around and saw other "patients" trying to gently steer the ants elsewhere. This is ludicrous, I thought. Who cares about a few ants? Besides, they bite. I don’t want to be bit, and, therefore, I will kill them. This thought train led to action led to my running smack into this other way of looking at ants: wildlife, living beings, worthy of protection, and all that. I relented, but I was deeply uncomfortable and eager for the exercise to be over.

Nearly a year since this small but public humiliation, exposing myself as an ant-killer, and I still blush when I remember the incident. I did, however, endeavor to change my thinking about ants. After the pain and discomfort of those first ant bites, I resolved to do everything in my power to never experience that again. How could I make sure ants do not have the chance to bite me and that I don’t seek to kill all ants? Maybe I could build a sort of fortress whether by avoidance or killing or repellant?

A few years back I visited the Bug Museum in a strip mall in Santa Fe. It’s really just one guy’s big collection, and he hired a personable, enthusiastic seventeen-year-old to do the “hands-on” demonstrations twice a day. That's when I let a tarantula crawl up my arm, something I never thought I would do. Felt like soft slippers lightly dancing upon my skin. Now I’m absolutely fascinated by tarantulas, no fear at all.

So, I decided to try to move toward my discomfort with ants and open myself to their little world. I’ve tried to pay attention to and appreciate them. This may be why I’ve noticed on my walks the wide array and styles of ant hills and holes and feel wonder and curiosity at the differences and reasons.

Are the ants and I friends now? I wouldn’t go that far, and I don’t let them crawl on me, but shifting my thinking from fear (hatred?) to curiosity made a huge difference. Now, I try not to step on or crush them with my bicycle tires. I still kill plenty, I’m sure, but it's inadvertent rather than intentional, and I can say I have more respect and appreciation for them in the wider scheme of all things Earth.

And I’ve learned something about myself: despite my efforts, I still fear discomfort too much and often go to extreme (even murderous, apparently) lengths to spare myself those experiences. Unfortunately, no discomfort, no growth. A profound realization for me is to wonder why I don’t fear comfort. I treat comfort like it’s some kind of best friend, when, in truth, comfort is a thief, robbing me of valuable opportunities for change and growth.

Comfort says, I don’t want to look stupid or make a mistake, so stick to what I already know.

Comfort says, I don’t want to fail, so don’t try.

Comfort says, I don’t want to be out of breath, so don’t exercise.

Comfort says, I don’t want to get lost, so stick to the known trails.

Comfort says, I am emotionally hurting, so grab a bottle of wine and chocolate and binge Netflix.

Comfort says, I don’t want to be rejected, so don’t smile first at strangers or try to make new friends.

Comfort is quite the chatty little bugger, and once it gets access to the “house” that is me and my thinking habits, it starts gathering up all the valuables, the thief of all the growth that could be mine.

It’s a startling shift in thinking: COMFORT, not discomfort, should be what I fear. Comfort is my real foe.

So, I’m going to keep practicing this type of thinking and intentionally moving toward discomfort, trying to make friends with it.

Perhaps you’d like to do this for yourself as well? Pick a discomfort, something you’ve feared or avoided or are usually quick to remedy, and instead, run toward it, embrace it, explore it, investigate it. It could be as simple as not running your air conditioner on a really hot day or not swatting the fly that’s divebombing your ears. What happens if you feel hot? Can you let that fly be or does that little thing bug the crap out of you and make you go inside your comfortable (flyless) house? It might be a more complicated discomfort like choosing, as a man, to wear a pink shirt or a nice scarf and investigating your notions about masculinity, or as a woman, going without makeup for a day and investigating how you’ve attached value and self-worth to this. What's does the discomfort with what others might be saying or thinking about you mean for you? What's the opportunity for growth here? You might want to go a day without your smartphone or fast for a day or read a book that’s challenging. You probably don't want to do any of these, and you don't have to do anything, but successfully embracing a small discomfort builds that muscle so you will be in better shape when the harder discomforts you don't choose come along.