The birth of Misogi

We hit the corner Bodega for the last time and I give the clerk a ‘later man’ as if I’ve known him my whole life. Our ponies are packed and pockets stuffed as we prepare to depart this iconic city. It’s three pm and google tells us we have eighty something miles to bike in order to make it to our tentative camp for the night. We know it’s late, with many miles ahead, but we’re in a mood for it.

I finished reading The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter this morning and the title tells it all: a crisis of comfort. He’s talking about American culture and lifestyle in 2023; about how the pursuit of convenience has led us down a path of addiction, swiping, mental health disorder, diabetes, Uber Eats, obesity, and distraction. I devour pages like a detective, hot on a case, and am too excited as my own observations on our country are confirmed. I read and flip and read and, to nobody, whisper in a haunted breath: ‘the Softpocalypse is here.’ 

Easter hints that late-stage capitalism is the true culprit, but he chooses ‘aversion to discomfort’ as his diagnosis. He sees it as a way to frame and understand what is happening, culturally, in a way that motivates folks to do something about it. It’s an insertion point into gaining back our agency, and he writes that ‘we need to bring hard back into our lives.’ I’m pleased to say that those are his words, not mine, and am giddy at a new concept that the book introduced: Misogi.

It’s a Shinto Japanese term meaning ‘ritual purification’ and, duh, it’s not some new-age trick. It’s very old, like 8th century old. Easter writes about the newer, Western adaptation of Misogi, whose essence he describes as:

Do something so hard one day a year that it impacts the other three hundred sixty four. It’s a physical trial that you don’t practice or prepare for (no marathons), you don’t perform before a crowd (no CrossFit-style competitions), and you don’t brag or pay to enter (no Tough Mudders). Thinking outside the box is important too. The only rules are 1) make it really fucking hard (fifty percent success rate, at best); and 2) don’t die. 

Marsh and I float our way through Central Park then up to Harlem and north along the Hudson. We have many miles yet to ride, the shadows already growing long, our legs already heavy. I ask Marsh if he thinks we’re on a Misogi? and he turns to me as if I’d told him I were pregnant or something. ‘Absolutely fucking not.’ I thank him for his grounded-ness and apologize to the Misogi gods for disrespecting their sacred ways. 

‘We should host one though,’ he asserts ‘for the people.’

‘Okay.’ I ponder for a bit between pedal strokes. ‘Do you think that would be cultural appropriation?'

'Perhaps.’ He thinks a bit and I’m eager for his response. I watch a fountain of sweat drip down his chin, it’s beginning to saturate his clothing bag. ‘Perhaps.’ He says again, and leaves it at that, he knows things of this nature are gray. ‘It’s not a true Misogi either, we’ve already talked about it too much.’

‘Okay, we’ll call it a sufferfest.’

***

And so it is: Presidents Day weekend, a band of us, moving under our own power, covering forty miles through Dark Canyon Wilderness all in one go. Hell, it’s a Misogi. And of course there’s a part of us that would rather stay cozy in our beds. After all, none of us ‘need’ to undertake such a challenge. Here kitty, kitty.

If it sounds like your cup of tea, let us know. We’ve still a couple spots available. Deets here.

P.S. Good food and a true, well earned rest on the back end. Positive vibrations, too.