As I write this, I am on the first day of my week-long vacation for the Thanksgiving holiday. This year, I join the millions of others who are foregoing their family Thanksgiving dinners for a relaxed, socially isolated, safe and responsible event. My partner and I will eat and be grateful, and relatively easily shake off the disappointment of not seeing our families or having a larger Friendsgiving. It’s a small price to pay for the safety of us, our families and our community.
However, in the past two days I have talked with about eight colleagues, and the topic of Thanksgiving naturally came up. Three expressed disappointment, but that they would be staying home with their households. The other five were traveling or going to a family event. These five all gave caveats or justifications — COVID testing was involved, or they had each been quarantining. And even though it’s not in my core values to tell others how to make their own judgement calls, it is still difficult not to judge when I have been so glued to the news of rapidly rising cases.
This theme has been ringing around in my brain. Discomfort. For these folks, and millions across the country, it is incredibly uncomfortable not to see their families. I know people who have not seen their own parents or children in months, because they are not in the same household. Some people deal with this kind of discomfort better than others.
For me, I have almost no problem with the isolation. I am happy being alone with myself, and when my partner is home, it is warm and safe to be myself. Physical discomfort, however, is a whole other thing.
The Norwegian and Danish concept of Hygge (hue-guh) has become trendy in America and the UK. Of course it has; it is incredibly appealing. It is described as “a quality of coziness and comfortable conviviality that engenders a feeling of contentment or well-being.” (Oxford) How lovely. Brands, Instagrammers and crafters have embraced this, representing it with cozy fires, scarves, warm socks and steamy cups of tea. This (terribly long and sensationalistic) article from The Guardian describes it as “catnip for social media.” In other places I’ve seen it described as the acknowledgement of a feeling of coziness.
What has always struck me about this term is that it rarely comes with any description of the contrasting or opposing sensations, which in my opinion are necessary for experiencing it. In Scandinavia, there are many days when it is freezing cold and the daylight is scarce. And of course, work still happens during these times, whether that mean a chilly commute or bundling up to do farm chores and chop firewood.
Especially as I explore the idea of being a small-scale farmer, I find that these contrasts make each end of the spectrum more powerful. For me, Hygge is more enjoyable when it proceeds hard work, or even discomfort. And discomfort would not be bearable if we could not take time and space to discover this Hygge.
Last weekend, my partner and I went out to the Nisqually National Wildlife Refuge, north of Olympia, Washington. We woke up early and drove down, hoping to see some birds and have a nice walk along the beautiful boardwalk that floats over the wetlands. When we got out to the boardwalk, it was pouring rain and gusting winds. We both had “rain jackets” on, which proved themselves insufficient for the volume of water the skies were emptying onto us. And by the time we returned to the car, we were both soaked through – our coats, our sweaters, our t-shirts, our pants, our socks and what felt like our skin.
But we maintained our good spirits thanks to the birds and the green grass and the shining moss that hung off of the trees in the distance. And when we got home, we bundled up, napped, cranked up the heater, drank lots of tea and felt refreshed by the morning walk and fresh air.
It’s only been a couple of years since I have been able to go on a walk like that and stay in good spirits. I have never been a fan of being cold or wet, and would mostly avoid any nature excursion that I knew would include these things. But my perspective has shifted. It can essentially be encapsulated in a few points:
- Discomfort can be worth it (and even more easily worth it when voluntary or in controlled conditions),
- Recovery from discomfort facilitates learning, and
- Resilience is built by pushing yourself into discomfort, not by staying comfortable.
This seems to be coming up a lot in my life these days, as I ponder the level of discomfort I am willing to endure in order to create a better future. For now, I find that my connection to nature is absolutely strengthened by letting myself get covered in rain water from time to time. A nap and some tea will warm me right up.
