I’m not usually one for self-help material, but I’ve printed off this list of advice on living life by Max Lukominskyi, and it’s pretty good. Good enough to carry around with me. Number eight on the list is:
“All opportunities for growth are beyond your comfort zone. Make leaving it a habit. Find your discomfort zone. Enter it.”
I’m one of those type-Aish people that always has a reason for why I’m doing whatever. At some point a few months ago, I stopped noticeably improving my ability to be punctual, articulate, concise, and organized. I wanted to jerk my brain back into learning mode. Hypothetically, if you take an animal out of its natural habitat, it can learn to survive in different habitats, right? Hypothetically. I decided to leave office life to try something I’m afraid of: being lost.
Getting lost isn’t exactly a hot conversation topic. Thanks to society, I’ve internalized lostness in its literal sense as irresponsible, foolish, and a result of minimal planning. Rebecca Solnit, however, meditated on the uses of the unknown and lostness in her book “A Field Guide to Getting Lost”. In her essay Open Door, Solnit gives absolved purpose to the unknown, saying that
“…for artists of all stripes, the unknown, the idea or the form or the tale that has not yet arrived, is what must be found. It is the job of artists to open doors and invite prophesies, the unknown, the unfamiliar; it’s where their work comes from, although its arrival signals the beginning of the long disciplined process of making it their own.” (page 5)
I don’t think I’ve been a good “artist” in my complacency; I haven’t been looking for what I don’t know to find and expose the new in myself. Instead, I’ve been indulging in safe sins, little highs, easily reconciled with water and Advil. Drinking, internet, and cheese puffs — all will be lessened. This year will be dedicated to artistry, and to floating in the dark abyss with intention.
I’d never been “intentional lost” before, so in the summer of 2016 I traveled to Montreal alone. Wandering around the city, I searched for a university I knew existed. Sun behind buildings cast layered shadows over my path in the humid Montreal air and a darkened maze spread before me. Edifices were equally similar — my walk was like an Escher drawing, each step a tessellation. Crossing street after street, walking a path ordained by my idea of the place, the physicality of my destination remained unknown. I took solace in street names I recognized and I followed them without any cardinal sense. It also didn’t hurt that I had decided against purchasing an international phone plan and didn’t have a map. So much for addresses, smartphones, and direction. I was successfully lost.
Disassociating from direction in a foreign environment is kind of like trying to fall asleep while, in unawares, clenching your jaw. Unintended spasticity tightens facial features until the mind wakes up and says “stop it”. When you’re “intentional lost” in a new place that “stop it” conversation is when your fascination with nothingness ends and you start keeping track of where you’re going. It may also be the new bounds of a comfort zone.
I eventually found McGill with the help of some public transit professionals and spent the whole week adventuring my way into trouble. On leaving office life behind: I’m now on a solo road trip… traveling… around. I’m fortunate enough to have the option to do things like this, and each moment in-voyage exposes new insecurity or strength for my quiver.
