The Discomfort Habit

Camping is, by its very nature, uncomfortable. It provides a wonderful way for someone to get out of their comfort zone, providing they’ve not got one of those palace-like set-ups with a king size mattress and all the fixings. I did this last night, out in the wilds of the flat-lands of Norfolk — surely a place for only the strangest of humanity — with a rustling, half-inflated mat, a jumper for a pillow, and owls throwing several parties above my head. I was up at dawn with the robins and my reward for a terrible sleep and a jumper-crumpled face was a trio of kingfisher and a deer for life-affirming company. 

I recently bought a wool-filled duvet and there’s nothing quite as wonderful as a long morning loafing about beneath it. Perhaps only surpassed by the air-conditioned luxury of the car I drive, and its heated seats on wintry days. The world is increasingly comfortable. A venture outside of those comforts can feel scary and alien. Perhaps not even meant for us. We might avoid the discomfort altogether, choosing safety over all. 

But what might we be missing if we allow the fear to keep us small, contained, safe above all else? I’m not proposing we throw our duvets in the sea or purposefully drive a car with neither heating or air-con. What a privilege to be alive in these comfortable, temperature-regulating times! I’m simply reminded of the magic that lies on the other side of our comfort. Comfort, yes. But, as light needs dark, as good tales need peril, we also need the discomfort of travelling somewhere new and unfamiliar, meeting strangers, throwing caution to the wind and doing away with our rituals and routines once in a while.

As much as we make a habit of mowing our lawns, we should make a habit of adding some strangeness into our days. I think perhaps it makes us all the more human, all the more alive. And we never know what life-affirming company we’ll find on the other side. 

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