Way Out Of My Comfort Zone

We know that being out of our comfort zones is language we use to talk about our growth, or we could say, our learning edge. A harsh reality can be, that if we remain too comfortable in life, we learn very little. It’s only in that amber zone of discomfort, where our bodies and brains fire up, we learn to evolve ourselves.

Being out of your zone, is relative. You can taste a bit of food you believe you don’t like, or you can sail single-handedly across the Atlantic never having sailed before. While the second of these may be unwise straight off, with a year or so of getting a teacher and committing to new practices, you may just transform yourself..

When we are under pressure, internally or externally, our threshold of what is comfortable or not, shifts. During our struggle or challenge, our capacity to withstand necessary discomfort expands, and we become what we call, resilient.

We build a muscle.

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So I’m finally on a flight out of Peru. In Spanish it’s “Jeje a la tercera va la vencida!” (the third time’s the charm!) I fly to Panama and wait 4 hours for a delayed night flight to Istanbul. Thirteen hours later I get to Istanbul, run for what seems miles to make the connection for Colombo, and miss it. By about 5 minutes. Not a Turkish Airlines staff member in sight at the gate. I then make a kind of am I still really trying to get this flight? ‘run’ back to customer services, only to find a long queue and…

Well. I’m not getting on this one.

There’s something immensely satisfying for me about being powerless in the moment. I can’t make the plane wait for me. And however frustrated I am with what I see as the inability of the airline to hold the flight until my arrival, I have to accept that they really couldn’t be bothered to wait.

I’m put on another flight later that day. To the Maldives. A second, cramped night-flight later and I’m in Male airport mixing it with large, dissatisfied German, British and Russian couples. I wait there for the day, and get another delayed flight to Colombo. I get there and, whoosh, it’s 34*C and about 80% humidity. Walk ten metres too quickly and you’re approaching a serious sweat.

That night is the third I’m awake on the trot, listening to the whirring fan in my room which is surely a lawn mower on full power and wondering if I’ll recover from this ordeal..

Twenty four hours later I’m in a secondary school of 2500 students giving introductory talks to students about -  I really don’t remember what. The Deputy asks me,

“Do you want to teach this class.. now…?”

There are virtually no books, the school is very run-down by western standards, and there are 30 sixteen year olds waiting for something to happen. And I don’t speak their language. I’m (slightly) daunted.

I feel waves of deep water. My cup nearly overflows.

I haven’t taught teenagers for fifteen years or more.

Do I still even know how to do this?

Fortunately, what I have learned to do, since last working with young people, is how to say ‘no’.

“No”. Is all I say. I hold her gaze.

It’s very clear, I will not be teaching anyone, anything today. I don’t care how excited my new colleagues are to have me there. No is the answer. A thought comes that I might try and explain the last few days to her, but I hold that back. Her reality is that I’m ten days late, and they’ve been expecting me.

The next day and I’m in a class with the students. They’re all about seventeen. I remember some times supply teaching Year 11 ‘vocational’ students back in the day. It can be a serious battle ground; an aggressive, dysfunctional, desolate experience. I learnt some essential survival craft back then. The dark arts of surviving an hour with marginalised youth, whom the system has failed, and who just want to bring you down…

I prepare a drama improv game I know well, reduce any expectation I have about ‘teaching’ them any English, and recommit to believing I know what I’m doing. It’s bumpy, yet at the end of the class we’ve felt the most wonderful thing you can in a learning space - shared laughter. Three or four students come up to me at the end, they offer me my shoes (which we’ve left outside the room) and touch my feet.

Touching a teacher's feet is a traditional gesture of respect and reverence in many cultures, particularly in South Asia. It symbolises humility, acknowledging the teacher's knowledge and wisdom. This practice stems from the belief that knowledge is sacred and that teachers are instrumental in imparting it. It's a way to express gratitude and honour for their guidance.

I don’t remember any significant foot-touching with the Year 11s in South London. Yet I’ve lived a few heartbreaks, break-downs and shed a few skins since I taught those guys. I’m inhabiting a body that has learnt some stuff. There are many new muscles. I’ve cultivated resilience. And it’s really not beyond my wildest dreams that I can sit in a circle with these young Sri Lankans and play learning games…

We learn to endure.

And it’s at that moment when the young girl touches my feet, and offers me freely the care and respect that her culture has taught her, that a star winks at another across the South Indian ocean; it warms my universe, and all the stardust of my living years settles in a delicious moment.