Feeding the wolf: brjósti úlfur

I've never blogged before. Not ever in my life. In fact, I 've never followed anyone else's blogs. Of course, the concept of having a blog doesn't escape me and I figure that I better create some way for my friends and family to gain insight into the life changing adventure that I'm about to embark on. So, today I created a blog. And then I proceeded to rack my brains for most of the morning, deciding what to name it. After arriving at nothing that made me totally inspired, I moved on to try to decide what I should write about....

...and still nothing. And I'm a full pot of coffee into my morning. I'm so close to stepping on a plane and yet I can't think of a way to explain my current state and invite all of you to be excited with me. But why?

After days of reflection, I've finally arrived at an honest place. This is scary for me. I hate to admit it out loud to all of you, but I'm so terribly nervous about leaving my life for 2 months to be in another country. Everyone that I talk to tells me that I have nothing to be afraid of and that it will be exciting. And I know this to be true. And I am excited. So why can't I sit down and just write a blog entry that's brimming with the imminent joy of traveling to another country?

I went to get my hair cut the other day. Vis, my hair stylist, is a very petite and bubbly gal who I have come to know quite well over the years. I don't think that a lot of guys reading this will understand, but a hairstylist has a certain oracle-like quality to them. It never fails that when I sit down in her chair, I leave with a great new look and something to think about. So yesterday, when I was trying to 'be excited' about my upcoming trip, she laid something on me that  can't get out of my head. "So lately" she said as she liberally applied dye to my hair "I've been trying to do one thing every day that is out of my comfort zone". She proceeded to explain that this might be as simple as ordering something new off a menu at a restaurant where she always gets the same dish. She even told me the story about a recent trip to the BDI, where she would always get a strawberry soft-serve baby cone, dipped in chocolate. She said it was the perfect Vis-sized treat and is always a slam dunk. She couldn't hide her disappointment when told me the story where she ordered a blueberry sundae and discovered ---> that she hated it. Absolutely loathed it. And it was a terrible trip to the BDI and she'll never get it again. And I couldn't help but think: Maybe it's important for you to know that you hate blueberry sundaes?

Stepping out of my comfort zone. I can finally put my finger on it. That's where my apprehension comes from. Listening to her describe how stressful it can even be to order something new off of a menu strangely made me feel reconciled with my feelings of traveling to Iceland for two months. Of course, I know that I will have an incredible time. But that's not what's scary to me. It's putting myself in a vulnerable position. The risk of discovering things about myself, for better or for worse. The fear of putting myself in a position that I will have to confront my own true self in. Please allow me to explain...

I recently encountered a story that I can’t seem to get out of my head. I keep rehersing it in my mind and with each thoughtful moment, it becomes more and more meaningful to me. Both timely and provocative given my pending departure to Iceland, it’s as though it was intended that I read this particular story at this particular time in my life.

Can I tell you the story?

There was a small village in which a man named St. Francis once lived. During this time, there was a period that the villagers found themselves attacked by a local wolf, and so they went to St. Francis and asked the great man for help. Apparently, this wolf had been eating their children. St. Francis went to the wolf and gave him a mound of bread, and the wolf ate it. He gave the wolf a mound of meat, and the wolf ate that too. The next day, St. Francis walked into town with the wolf at his side. He took a piece of bread out of his satchel and handed it to the wolf as they walked. The villager’s all asked, “How did you stop this wolf from eating our children?” And St. Francis told them quite plainly, “I fed him.”

Feeding the wolf: the part of you that you do not know and perhaps don't understand. I think that there exists a wolf in each of us. Maybe its fear or a part of you that self-destructs. The wolf is something that keeps us in our comfort zones, often to our own demise. It lurks in the background and threatens you to be fearful of it. It keeps you at home, where you are safe. Surrounded by comfort. 

So on Saturday, I will feed the wolf and challenge myself to step out of my comfort zone. I will go far away from my family, friends, and work, and take this once in a lifetime opportunity to discover a part of myself that I've never known. And so I will go away for now. Perhaps I will return to you transformed. But I will definitely come back full. Maybe even full of blueberry sundae.