Comfort Zone

I can remember standing at home plate, watching the long, lingering descent of the ball on its path toward me. I knew right where to swing to make contact and send the ball sailing down the first base line, into a clum of aspen trees across the road. I cannont say that I was truly that much of an athlete, but I was able to find what they call "my wheelhouse" and put my best swing into the ball. It helped that it was usually one of my parents who was pitching, and we generally didn't worry too much about balls and strikes. That's how I used to hit home runs on the softball diamond that was in the meadow at my family's cabin, oh so many years ago.
I thought of this because I was thinking about what it means to be both comfortable and successful. I don't like to feel uncomfortable, and I prefer success to failure. What do I need to make this happen? Mostly I've found that keeping things familiar will make it possible for me to do my very best, just like that long lob of a pitch my mother used to toss me: I could see the stitches on the ball as it traveled the distance from the pitcher's mound to home plate. Away from home, I don't do as well, since I don't have a sense of my immediate surroundings. I try and pad my nest with things that look familiar, like my iPod or a magazine, I might even bring my running togs to go out and make myself familiar with the territory. I want it to feel like home.
But it isn't. For this reason I have complete sympathy for my son an the challenges he faces in his quest to be able to spend the night away from home. I know that it gets harder once it gets dark, and that intellectually nothing has changed, but there are in fact monsters waiting under the bed.
This sometimes makes it difficult for me to be a good father. I want to present an adventuresome face to the world and create an example for my son to follow. That would make me an adult with one less neurosis, and we could all use a little more of that. So I push myself. Not hard, but I go out into the world like the little engine that could be a notch less neurotic, and I take my shot at the big round ball that is coming straight at me. What's the worst that can happen? I could miss. And then, if I'm lucky, I'll bet another pitch, at which time I intend to swing for that grove of aspen trees.