When Things Close In

I am not especially claustrophobic, though if I were to try spelunking I might find otherwise. Being in cramped elevators or train cars does not bother me, nor does spending hours in an airplane. On my ship in the navy, by bed was a thin mattress laid out in an area only slightly larger than what I imagine a coffin must be, though perhaps a little wider and taller. The bottom of the bed above me was less than an arm's reach away. I learned to "sleep small," I think, and even now in a queen-sized bed I don't wander far from my assigned place. My backpacking barely accommodates my length and girth, but it is a fine place to spend a night or two. A couple of years ago I lay in that tent during a loud and wonderful thunderstorm in the mountains of southern Yosemite, and I was quite warm and cozy.

In a less literal sense, however, my feeling of claustrophobia runs deep. I have known this for a very long time, but in the last few weeks I have come to know it better. My work life is, for the most part, devoid of stress, something I sincerely appreciate as I grow older. Many years ago, in a job that I truly hated, things were otherwise. The woman who was my boss was also the only person I can say that I truly hated. I have disliked people, but never hated. It is a waste of time and energy to hate people, isn't it? But, even as my current work life does not keep me awake at night or cause me much anxiety, it is still somewhat confining. Nobody, however, is to blame for that confinement. The situation is just what it is, and nothing more. Were I more energetic and more career-driven, I could probably shake my life up with great effect. I have also quite efficiently and systematically subdued any creative bent I might have once had.

The classroom I teach in two nights a week is stuffy and hot, truly confining in a physical sense. The class runs for two hours each night, and when I walk out the door to come home, I am exhausted. This probably means I am doing too much of the work, but that's a different story. One night not long ago I walked out of the classroom and out of the building after class, and the cold, fresh air on my skin and in my lungs was something I wanted to never go away. I felt as though I'd crawled out of my sleeping bag and into a morning breeze high in the mountains. Every night since, I have looked forward to those few minutes between the building and my car.

Yesterday I drove to the mountains and spent nearly three hours cross-country skiing. It was my first trip in about two years, and for at least an hour my skis and my feet were not working well together. Every stride seemed unnatural and uncomfortable for quite some time. Then, things changed: I was no longer thinking about what I was doing, I found myself relaxed, and I simply skied. And when the snow started, I stopped in a large, open meadow and relished the cold air.

It was good to be outside.