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July 2, 2018


I don't like to travel.




I hear a collective gasp of disbelief resounding from the four corners of the earth.


Please note, I'm using it as a verb.


I don't like getting there, I like being there.


 “Well,” said my lovely sister-in-law when I griped about this, "Don't think about the misery of getting there, think about the fun of being there."


Well yes. 


I'm too old to back pack.


I packed a suitcase for month away from home. I packed for -


  • Different weather,

  • Different situations,

  • What is acceptable where (Desperately trying not to stand out as an American. Hah – hah….)


Then comes toiletries.


  • Meds.

  • Spares of everything. (Just in case stuff.)


Knitting. Two projects. (I never ever go anywhere without knitting.)

Quilting. (Small squares that will become trivets someday.)


Note books.

One for my French lessons.

One for notes as we go along. (Spares thereof.)


Shoes. A special and sore subject. Pun intended. (I addressed this some time ago.)






My case weighs a ton


But the worst of this travel thing is living out of a suitcase. I'm a tidy soul. Digging in my case really disturbs me.


And it doesn't matter how hard I try to remember, the article I'm looking for is not where I think it is. Thus,


I unpack only to repack. For four days at a time.


I shed a tear for the back-packing days of my youth while doing this.


Back home I pondered this packing and traveling issue one morning as I walked the dogs.


It dawned on me that there was a lesson here. There’s always a lesson.


Life is one long travel trip. A voyage filled with adventures.


I lug along my suitcase. Full of baggage.


  • Old sins. Deeply hidden.

  • New sins. Accumulated as I travel.

  • Memories. Good and bad.


Some days, on impulse, I delve deep into that suitcase.


  • I haul out a memory.

  • Dust it off.

  • Spend some time with it.

  • Maybe shed a tear.

  • Maybe have a laugh.


Then pack it away.


My case is messed up. My equilibrium off center.


It takes a few days to recover.


And off I go again. Lugging that case.


  • Along narrow streets.

  • Up and down stairs.

  • Crowding into elevators designed for midgets with no cases.

  • Jostled by crowds that have no idea what I feel and think.

  • And wouldn’t care if they knew.


Some days my case is easy to carry. Some days, not so much.


But then I think of my final destination.


When that case I’ve been lugging around will stay behind.


Never to be unpacked again.


The “getting there” with all its joys and sorrows will be over.


The “being there” will be the final destination.


My heavenly home.


Cyber hugs and Blessings All. May your suitcase be full of joy.


Photo by Amos Bar-Zeev on Unsplash

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