On April 6th, 2010, I flew back into the United States. Inside my suitcase, I carried a couple of full journals, some faded skirts, and Haitian coffee, a load much lighter than the one I'd carried in 11 months before.
As always, I was happy when the luggage guys took my bag from me and tossed it into a pile. It was nice knowing I wouldn't have to think of it again until we reached Ft. Lauderdale. It and all my stuff would ride safely along until I got to the next airport, where I would again let the airport attendants stow it away.
I guess I just take it for granted that all my stuff will be safe, never even glancing inside my bag until I reach my final destination. It's easier that way because then when I get to it, I'm so excited about seeing my family that I don't care that there are coffee grounds in my tennis shoes or that the lotion broke open on my new skirt. And besides that there's no baggage tosser around for me to scold unnecissarily.
But this particular time, my luggage didn't make it through. After waiting for 45 minutes or so, we finally filed a report with the airline asking them to ship the luggage to my sister's house in the next day or so. Now call me sick, but something in me was strangley satisfied to walk out of the airport with only a backpack.
Maybe I get a strange pleasure out of simplicity, or maybe it's because I had packed a change of clothes in my carry-on and knew we could pick up toothbrushes at Walgreens...either way, I wasn't worried. And I had no problem letting my luggage be someone else's concern. I hate carrying big suitcases and all that stuff anyway. If I let my inner simpleton win out over the worrier, I think travel everywhere with just a back pack or with no luggage at all.
It's possible that I'm just a little crazy and hate carrying luggage. But is it also possible that this reflects some spiritual truth?
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