We're All Ordinary

When I was sixteen I went on a 50-day canoe trip across Northern Ontario. 50 days of paddling. 50 days of portaging. And, yes, 50 days without a shower. For 50 consecutive days, I lived without the simple comforts I all too often take for granted—home was a polyester tent erected by 4 aluminium poles.

For 50 days I spent day and night with seven other women; together, we were alone in the woods. And on that final day—day 50 of 50—our group returned to our starting point; a summer camp located on an island in Northern Ontario’s Algonquin Park. On that final day, we landed on the beach of that small island. The familiar sound of sand scraping the belly of the canoe was drowned out by campers and staff who gathered around to celebrate our return. Within seconds of landing, we were standing knee-deep in water, huddling, smiling, crying, and laughing. After saying hello to old friends and siblings who gathered for our grand return, we proceeded to unload the boats.

Before we paddled in, I remember thinking about how this moment would feel—because moments like this are supposed to feel a certain way. I grew up watching this moment play out. One after the other, trips landed on shores of my little island summer camp. Campers and counsellors jumped out of their canoes to enjoy the last few minutes of solitude together. They huddled and smiled. They laughed as tears rolled down their sun-kissed cheeks. “Were they sad tears or happy tears?” I thought to myself. And yet, in this moment, on the verge of paddling into summer camp myself, I hoped that this answer would materialise shortly. But when I paddled in, I found myself forcing the tears from my eyes. It felt like a performance; a gesture to appease the growing crowd gathered around the beach. I played the part but in reality all I could think about was the hot shower I longed for over the last 50 days.

“How was it?”

“Was it amazing?”

“Are you sad to be back?”

I could have said that my body ached from days of endless physical activity. I could have said that 50 days in the wilderness brought me a great deal of unease and anxiety. But I didn’t say that. I said: “It was pure magic.”

I often wonder if others experienced the same emptiness that I felt in this very moment. This was a moment in which I waited for years and here I was, standing knee-deep in water, utterly disillusioned by my own grandiose expectation. 50 days in the woods sounds exactly how you think it would sound—challenging, exhausting, ironically hilarious, and a little insane.

This memory flooded my conscience the other day when I fell down a Reddit rabbit hole discussing Burning Man. You know, the music festival that isn’t really a music festival but a community built on principles of art, self-expression, and self-reliance, held annually in California’s inhospitable Black Rock Desert. It’s a place to be yourself. The event’s copywriter must have strategically forgot to mention the copious amounts of acid consumed to enjoy said art, self-expression, and radical self-reliance but hell, what do I know—I’ve never been.

But Burners, as they call themselves, insist that it’s more substantial than just a week-long acid trip. They say it’s a challenge; an opportunity to disconnect from comfort and capitalism; a spiritual awakening; an extraordinary experience. Nonetheless, I wonder if this illustration is a true and accurate reflection of the Burning Man experience—or whether this is a response given to appease the growing illusion surrounding the event. This is, of course, an idea heavily influenced by my own bias as I’ve yet to meet a Burner disillusioned by their Burning Man experience. Or, perhaps, they choose to say otherwise, as I did when I returned from my 50 day canoe trip; as I continue to do when reflecting on certain accomplishments and milestones.

Graduations. Birthdays. ‘Epic’ New Years Eve plans. As these moments and milestones come and go, I’m left with this familiar feeling—a pit in my stomach, so to speak. The empty feeling contrasts what I thought I would have gained from the experience; a badge of honour; a distinction or recognition; a star of excellence for my lapel. Does that make these moments meaningless? No, not really, nor does it make them insubstantial. It simply adds a layer of complexity to what might (read: should) be an exciting life event.

Perhaps that’s the funny thing about the human experience—we try desperately to distinguish our lives, and our experiences, from the mainstream when in reality our lives are (for the most part) relatively ordinary. And yet, we deeply fear the ordinary. Ordinary experiences, people, places, vacations, jobs—we can’t help but use these grand experiences and opportunities to push ourselves beyond the conventional confines of contemporary existence. Nonetheless, to a certain degree, we’re all relatively ordinary. We play up our skills and experiences to break free from the comfortable confines of conventionality, and in doing so, we draw ourselves closer. Ironically, this attempt to dislodge ourselves from the ordinary is, in and of itself, inherently ordinary.

While authentic, I recognise that the cynicism in my words isn’t terribly becoming. It's almost comical to think that I didn’t intentionally write this piece to be cynical about myself and the world around me. That said, I’ve only just realised that fearing the ordinary is a painful consequence of looking for meaning (and recognition) at the finish line, rather than drawing meaning from the experience itself.

Food for thought. xxv