Acclimating nicely to a wider comfort zone

During the majority of my adulthood, roughing it meant the non-concierge level of the Ritz Carlton. Safely married, gainfully employed, relatively successfully balancing professional life with motherhood, I happily languished under down duvets in balcony cabins on luxury cruise ships. My husband and son, however, were always much more adventurous - the father active with ski patrol and volunteer emergency medical care; the son in soccer, baseball, marching band. Both, individually, willingly, left their “comfort zones” to complete multiple weeks at Outward Bound. I could not imagine anything more absurd.
























My son graduated college and, ever intrepid, drove 3000 miles away (what does that say about my mothering skills?) to begin his first real job off our payroll. I continued my life of minor luxury and major comfort, exchanging gifts like pricey vintage port, personal cooking lessons with noted chefs, and trans-Atlantic cruises with my loving husband.






















I was jerked out of that comfort zone at 11:36 one morning in June 2005. Sudden disasters are called disasters because that’s just what they are. Life crumbled, literally and figuratively. I remember asking my friend Elaine, the first person to my house, “what will I do now”, realizing even then that I meant more than “how do I handle this immediate crisis”. I already knew I did not have the tools to begin to cope with anything outside my comfort zone.























What I’ve discovered since then, however, and exactly because I no longer had that comfort zone, is that I was no longer encircled by my routine conventional comfort fences. Broken through, I have now been swimming with dolphins and sting rays, camped on the Sahara in Bedouin tents and risen at 5:00 am to ride a camel to the top of the dune to view the sunrise, climbed Machu Picchu, and just five days ago, I, willingly, hiked to the bottom of a deep gorge, climbed over river boulders, and slid down a waterfall on my butt. Talk about outside your comfort zone!






















Being forced to play the cards we are dealt – financial crisis, medical emergency, personal disaster – sometimes allows us to free ourselves of what we thought were comfort zones. Listening to that still, small voice telling you “no, you don’t want to do that” may or may not always be beneficial. I suppose the true test of mettle is understanding when to know difference.

A Matter of Honor

He was born in Koenigsberg, Prussia (now Kaliningrad, Russia), in 1896; his father, a strict Prussian General. By 1915, he had found his way to Marburg University to follow a less violent branch of the family tree by studying medicine. He joined Hasso-Nassovia, a Protestant fraternity, and via the fraternity, was introduced to the finer points of Mensurfechten - fencing in a small, confined space.

The fencers were allowed to wear protective eyepieces, a chest guard and a heavy scarf. Each wielding a heavy saber-like Schlager, two fraternity "brothers" faced each other and took turns at slash and parry, aiming for the only unprotected body part - the face. They were not allowed to flinch or move further away than arm's reach. They fought like this until first blood was drawn. The resulting facial scars were worn as a badge of honor, a symbol of higher education, Protestant religion and courage in adversity.

He eventually became a pediatrician and, in part because of his very visible scars and what everyone knew they meant, was embraced by those in horrendous power in 1930s Berlin. The scars, they knew, were proof that he was a true German, a Protestant, an educated Aryan.

I have only recently embarked on researching more of my grandfather's history during that war. What I've uncovered has sometimes been less than flattering and has sometimes bordered on troubling. His own memoirs end with statements of personal remorse and contrition.

My lesson? While it may be reputation building at the time, surviving the seemingly noble duel does not always guarantee character. We are always a work in progress. Sometimes conscience and responsibility are the very best lesson to teach.

Life changes in the instant

I continue to love a man who appreciated Mahler and Bon Jovi, relished world travel and his own basement "cave", but who was also a quiet, good and decent human being. He was a fighter pilot who flew 126 missions over North Vietnam and who continued to love to fly vintage aircraft and teach flying, almost daily, long after he retired from active military duty.

He and a 30 year veteran captain of an international air carrier lifted off in a vintage plane a few years ago. I'm told it was a long, slow take-off roll that hot, humid midday. They cleared the first set of trees at the end of the grass strip, but did not clear the thirty foot dead pecan tree. Both died on impact. We had been married 28 years.

I clearly remember brushing our teeth together that morning, discussing what we were doing that day. I had a routine doctors appointment. He was so excited about his morning flight in that WWII plane and the student pilot he was to instruct later that day. I also clearly remember standing alone in my living room that afternoon as I watched the local breaking news about the crash and the promise for "film at 11".

I have never had one moment of anger. Grief, yes, regret, yes, but always about little personal details and never about his flying. I thinking that most wives of these adventurous spirits feel the same way. We love them and want them to be and do what fills their hearts.

Our son, then 25, spoke at his dad's service. He was amazed at the standing room only crowd that numbered over 500, amazed at the number of people his father had impacted even though, throughout his own life, his dad had not seemed to be anything special - just a regular dad who loved to fly. He let us all know that his only wish was to grow to be a man his father would have been proud of.

Don't be sad for those of us who remain. We glory in his life well lived. We should all be so lucky!

It was just her cup of tea (my first attempt at fiction)

She boarded the old steam powered train in Siliguri and settled in to her seat by the window, the once plush green velvet cushion now frayed and resembling a poorly constructed bale of wheat. She knew what lay ahead and prepared for the long nine hour journey, secreting her weathered satchel behind the small of her back. The climb began in earnestness near Sukna, the old steam locomotive laboring over the steep gradient and around the treachorous traverses.

May, she knew, was the very best month to be visiting Darjeeling again. The air would be clear and the chilling, biting cold would have subsided by now. The rich soil and hilly terrain of the tiny Narbada Majhua Tea Estate would be bustling with activity, the pickers selecting only the finest two leaves and buds from each of the young bushes so that the Muscatel flavor of the best tea in the world would become more pronounced with the spring flush.

She allowed herself a small snack of Aloo Dum, delighting in the sharp sensation of the chili peppers on her lips, quickly followed by that smooth suggestion of perfectly boiled new potatoes. Sleep followed.

The bleak sound of tapping on the outside of her window, woke her from her slumber. She had known Phulmani Ramesh for most of the young girl’s 19 years on the tea plantation, first as a toddler, following her mother in the tea fields, and then nurturing her formative years by teaching her how a real lady conducted herself. Phulmani was now a beautiful young woman, who quickly scooped up her belongings and brightly escorted her to the waiting taxi.

It would be a short drive to Narbada Majhua, the road passing over Tiger Hill, with its stunning view of the Himalaya range. They played their usual game of “name that mountain” – Lhotse, Makalu, Everest, Khangchendzonga, Kabru, Janu – as they rounded that last corner to arrive at the main house. The best cup of tea in the world would be waiting. The perfect brew was one level teaspoon of pure Darjeeling tea in her favorite Wedgewood cup, with the spring water, seconds after a furious boil, poured over the fragrant little leaves and buds. Exactly four minutes of glorious flavor melding later, the tiniest bit of milk and sugar added, and she was sipping heaven.