Like any epiphany, this one was unexpected. Well, "epiphany" is probably too strong a word. You decide.
It was a sunny July Saturday, early afternoon, and I was in the back yard unpinning dried laundry from my retractable clothesline. I've always known that I like hanging out the clothes (in summer only, mind you). But at that moment I was struck with bliss.
In the process of folding a tablecloth I thought "there is nothing on earth I would rather be doing right now than folding and taking in the sweet-smelling, slightly stiff, line-dried laundry." Well, I didn't phrase it quite like that; there were fewer adjectives in the original. But the happiness was unalloyed. "Bliss" is the right word.
Then, because this is how my mind works, I noticed the neighbours' house. I was facing their kitchen window and remembered that they were away. Travelling. At their cottage up north. Somewhere. And I couldn't help but make the comparison: me taking clothes off the line, the neighbours frolicking in some Not-Home place. And I was filled with gratitude for the fact that I am allowed (by the world, society, the culture, good luck) to live my life exactly as I want.
An experience like this will inevitably lead me to explore my reluctance to travel, which stands in strong relief to the habits of almost every couple we know. Everyone else is always going some place. Off again on an adventure. Off to see a sight (sometimes to re-see a sight they've seen before). Off and running. Off time after time, summer after summer, winter after winter. What keeps us (me) at home?
The first issue for me is comfort. Over and over I am made to face the fact that comfort is very important to me. I do not see this as a positive thing. I'll bet the Dalai Lama doesn't fuss about his "comfort." He'll just take wherever he lands and declare it comfortable, rather than having pre-determined ideas of what comfort should be.
So I'd probably be a better person if I weren't so hung up on my narrow comfort zone. Not too hot. Not too cold. In familiar surroundings. Food when I'm hungry. Water always available. Shoes that don't pinch. You know: comfort.
I can come up with loftier reasons to stay at home. First, it is good for the planet to avoid unnecessary travel.
Next, I cannot bear the thought of contributing to the harmful effects of tourism on so many places (Venice, for example, or popular exotic natural phenomena). People seem to feel a god-given right to travel to faraway places so they can gawk (sorry; gaze) at foreign people and sights. And then they come home and say that such-and-such a place was beautiful—but the food was terrible, or too expensive, or the place was overrun with tourists.
You get the picture. Maybe I'll make those reasons the real excuse for not wanting to travel, rather than my need for comfort, since that inevitably highlights my shallow nature.
Back to my epiphany. I was struck on that day by the deep joy that came to me while I folded my clean laundry, standing on the wooden deck, unpinning the clothes pins one by one and dropping them into their basket. Then I aligned the top corners of the tablecloth, gave it a good shake, and further folded it into a neat rectangle. I take the laundry off the line slowly, walking from the line to the clothespin basket, folding things and putting them in the laundry basket. I remove items from the line in order: first, all the pieces that need to go upstairs, then all those for the downstairs. This way I can just lift the top items off the pile when I'm in the kitchen, making my upstairs load lighter. My load is light. My light is strong. I smile often.
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