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Fighting the comfort crisis
Sep 11, 2023
A white and gray-coated bird just caught a fish. It’s a pelican. This large-bulleted, long-beaked-flapper flipped from an afternoon stroll to a B-52 dive bomb faster you can say freedom and came up with what looks to be a red snapper. Perfect ten.
The Cuban family whom I share a casa with are a couple of sheets to the wind and boisterously cheer for the elegance showcased by this talented fisherwoman. Unwitting to the pelican, its dive bomb has planted the seeds for the drunk Cuban family’s next hour of entertainment.
There are twelve of them in total and their intoxication has warmed them up to my foreign presence. We sit together, and for the first time in two days they ask me a question and it feels good to be seen. We’re on a rickety fishing dock that is riddled with cracked and splintering boards, soft-mushy wood, rusty nails, and off-kilter rotting posts. I respond back to them with warmth in my words in an attempt to connect but I’m also preoccupied by the janky feebleness of the dock we’re on. This thing’d have the truest of US attorneys salivating for its litigation-induced monetary potential. The locals don’t seem to mind however, it’s an assumed risk of life and it’s helping them keep their wits about them amidst the drunkenness. I’m refreshed to know that even if a kid takes a rusty nail to the heel, there’s no one to sue for the harm. The dock belongs to no one and everyone all at once.
A couple cervezas later. The reggaeton, too loud, has us dancing, jumping, and laughing despite the impending hearing damage and repetitive nature of the songs. The dance party has turned into an all-eyes-on spectacle: the men are teaching their youngest sister and daughter, thirteen I’d guess, how to dive. Her nervousness is palpable and transmits, seemingly through an invisible energetic aura, directly to the empathy centers of all in participation. They want the best for their much-loved family member and each has something to say about what she should, or should not, be doing.
Put your hands out front. Tuck your biceps to your ears. Get on one knee. Just jump. Five-four-three-two. Again. Five-four-three-two. Again. Ten-nine-eight-seven. Like this.
She approaches the edge of the three-foot-tall dock at least eight times, each time convinced she is going to actually dive, and each time returning to safety with her tail between her legs.
Put your chin to your chest. Make sure your fingertips touch the water first. Twenty-nineteen-eighteen-seventeen. Just go already. Three-two-one. You don’t have to do this baby. Five-four-three. No pressure darling. You’re not going to jump. Three-two-one. Jump.
I laugh and reminisce about the time my sister learned to dive. And when Teddy tried his first backflip, and Colin jumped the big one down the river, and Grant dropped in for the first time, and Jonah asked Jane out, and Sam gave the commencement address, and my mom skied down an elevator shaft, and my dad biked one-hundred-forty miles in a day, and my sister moved alone to Vietnam, and my grandparents sailed to Aruba. And when I, just last evening, asked if I could play soccer with a big scary group of locals.
The thirteen-year-old Cuban niña– the only sober one of the bunch– ends up pencil diving feet first despite, or perhaps because of, the pressures of the men. She won’t ever know it but I am proud of her for exploring her limit. She is proof that everyone’s comfort bubble differs in size and the only thing that matters is that we continue to dance with the edges. Despite her brother's disappointment, she is at ease now and dangles her feet in the water.
***
Amidst the changing fall colors, in less than a month, we will be dancing with the edges of our comfort zone in Peacham, VT. If you, like the girl above, wish to stave off the comfort crisis, come join us.
A white and gray-coated bird just caught a fish. It’s a pelican. This large-bulleted, long-beaked-flapper flipped from an afternoon stroll to a B-52 dive bomb faster you can say freedom and came up with what looks to be a red snapper. Perfect ten.
The Cuban family whom I share a casa with are a couple of sheets to the wind and boisterously cheer for the elegance showcased by this talented fisherwoman. Unwitting to the pelican, its dive bomb has planted the seeds for the drunk Cuban family’s next hour of entertainment.
There are twelve of them in total and their intoxication has warmed them up to my foreign presence. We sit together, and for the first time in two days they ask me a question and it feels good to be seen. We’re on a rickety fishing dock that is riddled with cracked and splintering boards, soft-mushy wood, rusty nails, and off-kilter rotting posts. I respond back to them with warmth in my words in an attempt to connect but I’m also preoccupied by the janky feebleness of the dock we’re on. This thing’d have the truest of US attorneys salivating for its litigation-induced monetary potential. The locals don’t seem to mind however, it’s an assumed risk of life and it’s helping them keep their wits about them amidst the drunkenness. I’m refreshed to know that even if a kid takes a rusty nail to the heel, there’s no one to sue for the harm. The dock belongs to no one and everyone all at once.
A couple cervezas later. The reggaeton, too loud, has us dancing, jumping, and laughing despite the impending hearing damage and repetitive nature of the songs. The dance party has turned into an all-eyes-on spectacle: the men are teaching their youngest sister and daughter, thirteen I’d guess, how to dive. Her nervousness is palpable and transmits, seemingly through an invisible energetic aura, directly to the empathy centers of all in participation. They want the best for their much-loved family member and each has something to say about what she should, or should not, be doing.
Put your hands out front. Tuck your biceps to your ears. Get on one knee. Just jump. Five-four-three-two. Again. Five-four-three-two. Again. Ten-nine-eight-seven. Like this.
She approaches the edge of the three-foot-tall dock at least eight times, each time convinced she is going to actually dive, and each time returning to safety with her tail between her legs.
Put your chin to your chest. Make sure your fingertips touch the water first. Twenty-nineteen-eighteen-seventeen. Just go already. Three-two-one. You don’t have to do this baby. Five-four-three. No pressure darling. You’re not going to jump. Three-two-one. Jump.
I laugh and reminisce about the time my sister learned to dive. And when Teddy tried his first backflip, and Colin jumped the big one down the river, and Grant dropped in for the first time, and Jonah asked Jane out, and Sam gave the commencement address, and my mom skied down an elevator shaft, and my dad biked one-hundred-forty miles in a day, and my sister moved alone to Vietnam, and my grandparents sailed to Aruba. And when I, just last evening, asked if I could play soccer with a big scary group of locals.
The thirteen-year-old Cuban niña– the only sober one of the bunch– ends up pencil diving feet first despite, or perhaps because of, the pressures of the men. She won’t ever know it but I am proud of her for exploring her limit. She is proof that everyone’s comfort bubble differs in size and the only thing that matters is that we continue to dance with the edges. Despite her brother's disappointment, she is at ease now and dangles her feet in the water.
***
Amidst the changing fall colors, in less than a month, we will be dancing with the edges of our comfort zone in Peacham, VT. If you, like the girl above, wish to stave off the comfort crisis, come join us.
A white and gray-coated bird just caught a fish. It’s a pelican. This large-bulleted, long-beaked-flapper flipped from an afternoon stroll to a B-52 dive bomb faster you can say freedom and came up with what looks to be a red snapper. Perfect ten.
The Cuban family whom I share a casa with are a couple of sheets to the wind and boisterously cheer for the elegance showcased by this talented fisherwoman. Unwitting to the pelican, its dive bomb has planted the seeds for the drunk Cuban family’s next hour of entertainment.
There are twelve of them in total and their intoxication has warmed them up to my foreign presence. We sit together, and for the first time in two days they ask me a question and it feels good to be seen. We’re on a rickety fishing dock that is riddled with cracked and splintering boards, soft-mushy wood, rusty nails, and off-kilter rotting posts. I respond back to them with warmth in my words in an attempt to connect but I’m also preoccupied by the janky feebleness of the dock we’re on. This thing’d have the truest of US attorneys salivating for its litigation-induced monetary potential. The locals don’t seem to mind however, it’s an assumed risk of life and it’s helping them keep their wits about them amidst the drunkenness. I’m refreshed to know that even if a kid takes a rusty nail to the heel, there’s no one to sue for the harm. The dock belongs to no one and everyone all at once.
A couple cervezas later. The reggaeton, too loud, has us dancing, jumping, and laughing despite the impending hearing damage and repetitive nature of the songs. The dance party has turned into an all-eyes-on spectacle: the men are teaching their youngest sister and daughter, thirteen I’d guess, how to dive. Her nervousness is palpable and transmits, seemingly through an invisible energetic aura, directly to the empathy centers of all in participation. They want the best for their much-loved family member and each has something to say about what she should, or should not, be doing.
Put your hands out front. Tuck your biceps to your ears. Get on one knee. Just jump. Five-four-three-two. Again. Five-four-three-two. Again. Ten-nine-eight-seven. Like this.
She approaches the edge of the three-foot-tall dock at least eight times, each time convinced she is going to actually dive, and each time returning to safety with her tail between her legs.
Put your chin to your chest. Make sure your fingertips touch the water first. Twenty-nineteen-eighteen-seventeen. Just go already. Three-two-one. You don’t have to do this baby. Five-four-three. No pressure darling. You’re not going to jump. Three-two-one. Jump.
I laugh and reminisce about the time my sister learned to dive. And when Teddy tried his first backflip, and Colin jumped the big one down the river, and Grant dropped in for the first time, and Jonah asked Jane out, and Sam gave the commencement address, and my mom skied down an elevator shaft, and my dad biked one-hundred-forty miles in a day, and my sister moved alone to Vietnam, and my grandparents sailed to Aruba. And when I, just last evening, asked if I could play soccer with a big scary group of locals.
The thirteen-year-old Cuban niña– the only sober one of the bunch– ends up pencil diving feet first despite, or perhaps because of, the pressures of the men. She won’t ever know it but I am proud of her for exploring her limit. She is proof that everyone’s comfort bubble differs in size and the only thing that matters is that we continue to dance with the edges. Despite her brother's disappointment, she is at ease now and dangles her feet in the water.
***
Amidst the changing fall colors, in less than a month, we will be dancing with the edges of our comfort zone in Peacham, VT. If you, like the girl above, wish to stave off the comfort crisis, come join us.
A white and gray-coated bird just caught a fish. It’s a pelican. This large-bulleted, long-beaked-flapper flipped from an afternoon stroll to a B-52 dive bomb faster you can say freedom and came up with what looks to be a red snapper. Perfect ten.
The Cuban family whom I share a casa with are a couple of sheets to the wind and boisterously cheer for the elegance showcased by this talented fisherwoman. Unwitting to the pelican, its dive bomb has planted the seeds for the drunk Cuban family’s next hour of entertainment.
There are twelve of them in total and their intoxication has warmed them up to my foreign presence. We sit together, and for the first time in two days they ask me a question and it feels good to be seen. We’re on a rickety fishing dock that is riddled with cracked and splintering boards, soft-mushy wood, rusty nails, and off-kilter rotting posts. I respond back to them with warmth in my words in an attempt to connect but I’m also preoccupied by the janky feebleness of the dock we’re on. This thing’d have the truest of US attorneys salivating for its litigation-induced monetary potential. The locals don’t seem to mind however, it’s an assumed risk of life and it’s helping them keep their wits about them amidst the drunkenness. I’m refreshed to know that even if a kid takes a rusty nail to the heel, there’s no one to sue for the harm. The dock belongs to no one and everyone all at once.
A couple cervezas later. The reggaeton, too loud, has us dancing, jumping, and laughing despite the impending hearing damage and repetitive nature of the songs. The dance party has turned into an all-eyes-on spectacle: the men are teaching their youngest sister and daughter, thirteen I’d guess, how to dive. Her nervousness is palpable and transmits, seemingly through an invisible energetic aura, directly to the empathy centers of all in participation. They want the best for their much-loved family member and each has something to say about what she should, or should not, be doing.
Put your hands out front. Tuck your biceps to your ears. Get on one knee. Just jump. Five-four-three-two. Again. Five-four-three-two. Again. Ten-nine-eight-seven. Like this.
She approaches the edge of the three-foot-tall dock at least eight times, each time convinced she is going to actually dive, and each time returning to safety with her tail between her legs.
Put your chin to your chest. Make sure your fingertips touch the water first. Twenty-nineteen-eighteen-seventeen. Just go already. Three-two-one. You don’t have to do this baby. Five-four-three. No pressure darling. You’re not going to jump. Three-two-one. Jump.
I laugh and reminisce about the time my sister learned to dive. And when Teddy tried his first backflip, and Colin jumped the big one down the river, and Grant dropped in for the first time, and Jonah asked Jane out, and Sam gave the commencement address, and my mom skied down an elevator shaft, and my dad biked one-hundred-forty miles in a day, and my sister moved alone to Vietnam, and my grandparents sailed to Aruba. And when I, just last evening, asked if I could play soccer with a big scary group of locals.
The thirteen-year-old Cuban niña– the only sober one of the bunch– ends up pencil diving feet first despite, or perhaps because of, the pressures of the men. She won’t ever know it but I am proud of her for exploring her limit. She is proof that everyone’s comfort bubble differs in size and the only thing that matters is that we continue to dance with the edges. Despite her brother's disappointment, she is at ease now and dangles her feet in the water.
***
Amidst the changing fall colors, in less than a month, we will be dancing with the edges of our comfort zone in Peacham, VT. If you, like the girl above, wish to stave off the comfort crisis, come join us.