My Mother Packed My Bags for My Life Journey

By Barbara Redcay

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Wow! What an accumulation of stuff! But wait—look there—strawberries!

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I began the journey with an appropriately sized bag for a small child. My suitcase had gray stripes with white trim and a little white leather handle for a little hand. I ran, I jumped, I giggled and hopped.

     My mommy packed my bag and I knew I had everything I needed!

     As I traveled, I began to notice I wasn’t having so much fun anymore. My bag was getting heavy! How did that happen? I never opened it. I didn’t question what was inside. I knew I would have what I needed in there. I didn’t know what it might hold and I had no idea when I might need its contents, but I would not question that it was an essential part of my journey—because my mother packed it!

     And so—on I walked. Whew. Okay, now this sucker is just getting too heavy! Oops—I hope you didn’t hear that. How could I question what my mother so lovingly packed for my life journey? Of course only she would know what I needed and when.

     So, angry but obedient, I continued to carry luggage. What? Luggage? What happened to the sweet little gray striped suitcase with the white leather handle? Where did this bag come from? And what on earth could weigh so much?

     I stopped; I looked at it as if for the first time. The bag no longer seemed a part of me, but something unfamiliar and alien.

     Should I open it and see what it holds? Good grief! It must be packed with rocks! My progress is slow and tiring and somehow this weight doesn’t feel like mine anymore. Who does it belong to? What would happen if I looked inside? At this thought, I snapped to. What was I thinking? How disloyal! My mother packed this bag with great thought and care. I continued my journey. With each turn in the road, the bag seemed larger and heavier. I stopped once and opened it. Are you surprised? Don’t be, I didn’t look inside. I had my eyes closed and I quickly snapped it shut.

     Finally—filled with anger at this unwelcome load and moving through my life at a pace not of my own choice, I stopped. I yelled, “No More!” With anger at my mother for packing this bag—I wanted no more of being tired—no more unquestioned duty.

     I opened the bag and tossed all its contents on the side of the road and walked on! Did I go back? No. Did I look at the contents? No.

     I walked on, free as a bird. Light, but I wasn’t giggling. And I wasn’t so happy. Hmmm—is it possible I need a bag?

     And with that thought, the bag appeared! By my side, heavy and full as though it had never been left behind.

     This time, I opened it. Curiosity stronger than anger, and from somewhere compassion and understanding were with me as I opened each clasp.

     Wow! What an accumulation of stuff! But wait—look there—strawberries! The tiny ones that grow wild in the fields. I remember picking them at Aunt Dolly’s farm. Mmmm, red lips and fingertips—and a few days later, fresh strawberry jam in jars on Mammy’s basement shelves all lined up next to jars of canned peaches and pears and quince jelly. So many wonderful things. Colorful threads for needlework. Look here—herbs! Oh, the smell of rosemary and the softness of sage leaves. Mother shared her love of herbs and cooking by giving me her recipe books. Looking deeper, there were things I recognized and knew I neither wanted nor needed. My mother packed this bag with what she believed was important, because it was what she needed and used on her journey.

     With clarity and decisiveness, I placed items by the side of the road. I kept what I wanted. And in place of anger, I was joyful knowing that I carried within me a love of nature and cooking, smells and tastes. Laughter and music was my life soundtrack. My burden was light.

     Now of course my journey doesn’t end there. I guess you could say that’s when it truly began as “my” journey, carrying items of my choosing.

     How has my journey been since then? Perfectly imperfect!

     I admit, there were times when the bags weighed me down again. However, I have no fear at taking inventory now, with tossing and adding. I learned that many things are temporary. Items come and go as they are needed—and some are with me always. These are my passions. I especially love those items that I can trace to my mother. I am grateful.

     And so, on my life journey, I carry a little gray striped suitcase with white trim and a piece of red yarn tied to the little white leather handle. And I walk my life path with a giggle and a hop.

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In April, 2009, with gratitude and joy, Barbara and her family celebrated her mother on reaching her 97th birthday—now that’s quite a journey! You may contact Barbara at bredcaywrites@gmail.com.

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