Who Knew Leaving a Comfort Zone would Be Uncomfortable?

When I left a job that for eight years felt like a calling, I didn’t connect the dots that leaving a comfort zone meant feeling uncomfortable.  All the affirmations that “this too shall pass” or “things are always working out for me” don’t change the felt sense of displacement and the nakedness of being such a beginner again. While I told myself it’s time to grow and stretch, I secretly believed I was being called to reach new audiences and have even a greater impact.  What arrogance! Right now the impact this change is having is on me, first and foremost.

I feel as though I’m being remodeled as a teacher and a spiritual director, and this remodeling is not simply switching out old cabinets for nicer ones.  I’m being stripped down to the studs of my ego so that I can be rebuilt. I get a glimpse that the remade teacher will be more creative and my spiritual directing will be more authentic, but I’m not there yet. The process, as anyone who has gone through change knows, is not pretty, not necessarily predictable, and not one I’m in charge of, hence the discomfort.

Being in a new place helps me see where I was coasting and thus hiding a little bit.  Every topic and session that was such a hit in the last place doesn’t fly with a new audience that lets me know immediately.  I’ve woken at 3:30 churning with a response I should have made, replaying a conversation I wish had occurred, until I’ve gotten up to write about it and been flooded with similar situations going back to when I was 12.  Gary Zukav would say that the unhealed parts of my personality are emerging to be healed by consciousness, and while I’m grateful for that—heck I apparently signed up for it in this change—I cannot weather this alone.

So I’m writing about it, talking about it, asking for help, and taking exquisite care of myself in the process.  I'm also praying like I haven't in a long long time. My spiritual progress is that the period between extreme discomfort and shame of not doing this very well to a sense of curiosity and willingness to have hard conversations is pretty short.  I’m noticing my first impulse to run, hide, quit is just that—an old response that won’t work today because I know too much and have tools that really work to enlarge my spirit.  I do want a larger comfort zone, and for that to happen, I have to travel through the territory of discomfort.

Vacationing in Everyday Life

I’m in my second week of a new, half-time job, and my wise sponsor has invited me to honor the transition by not filling every spare moment.  My assignment is to notice how I spend time when I truly have choice and am listening.  

I love to sort and sift.  Now that we’ve brought every last thing over from the Golden Valley house, I spent time in the basement unpacking boxes and putting things where we can find them again. Surprisingly, I had the most fun in the work room, creating a place for hammers, another for screwdrivers, and one for plyers, using containers we already have.

I got my own office/writing space ordered.  I eliminated things from the floor and hung paintings—two oils by Veda Stanfield, a watercolor given to my mother when she retired, and the big piece I brought home from Ecuador simply because I couldn’t live without it. I took immense pleasure just sitting and enjoying this tidy, beautiful space.

I spent time in the yard. I set up the hammock and the chaise lounge that had been lying around and sat in them after work.  Consequently, I had two conversations with my next door neighbor, who I hadn’t yet met in six months. I had time to sweep the sidewalk, something I’ve wanted to do for a week now.  Given my new mode of acting on inspiration, I made the time, in my skirt and sandals, before work. 

I read a couple books, taking one to the pool and reading it in one sitting.  Patrick Rhone’s Enough is an inspiration for my own. His topic and voice kept me reading until the end.  Not pressuring myself to produce a book this week has been lovely and very freeing. Until I let that go,  I had no idea of the ever-present pressure to produce something extraordinary.

I walked, which I’ve wanted to do for years.  I walked before work on Monday. I walked after work because I was home before supper.  I strolled without thought of aerobic exercise, enjoying the flowers and looking at house numbers for ideas.  Just how do you put numbers in stucco?

And I’ve slept. Napping, going to bed early, getting up later all show me how in need of replenishment I’ve been.  More confirming information I’ve made the right move for me.

In short, I’m becoming the person I want to be, which I suspect is what happens on a vacation and can be incorporated into daily living, if I listen and move slowly enough.

Leaning into Change

Feeling Both/And Emotions   

   

I’m in a big period of transition, and my history is to focus on where I’m headed, be excited about it, stay positive. But the place I’m leaving has been a wonderful scene—beautiful setting, healthy environment, colleagues who have become trusted friends, impeccable supervisor and truly fulfilling work.  (You may wonder why I’d leave and the story of how this came about is curious because I wasn’t looking.)

What I’m attempting to do this week is inhabit the whole spectrum of human emotion—the anticipation and the delight of something new, the wistfulness of leaving a place that for eight years has helped me grow and learn new skills in the safest environment I’ve ever worked.  There’s a theory that workplaces mirror our families, reflecting the complicated dynamics of our first relational system and so if we’re not conscious, we can fall into habitual, outmoded roles.  But when we choose to consciously evolve, we mature and attract a family of responsible adults who take ownership for their actions, analyze their motives, and together create something meaningful. This particular group also has an ability to play together and bring out the best in each other. The staff at Hazelden’s Dan Anderson Renewal Center is remarkable and I’ve been blessed to be part of it.

Yet talk of family systems theory is not the way I’ll best make my transition. I need to live these last days from my heart,  to savor the views of the forest and lake as I see it for a last time, to enjoy the guests clamoring for one last conversation,  the special feeling of lecturing in Bigelow auditorium, delivering information and telling stories that might bring someone hope. Mostly I’m tuned into the goodness of the people I’ve worked with, crying smiling when they share what they appreciate about me, crying when I tell them how important they have been to my daily life. 

Even the happiest of transitions has a thread of loss, and for once I want to notice it, tend to it, knowing it doesn’t diminish how excited I am to be joining Hazelden St. Paul on Monday.