travelling light

This day I am packing, not to fly back home, not yet, but instead to stay for a few nights inside the wildlife reserve at the Switsonga Guest house. Why am I doing this? Well, it is to give my son and his wife space in their own home after almost a month apart, the longest since they married almost 9 years ago. Another reason is to push myself into being alone, sort of, and in a place I don’t know, all an important brick, or bricks, in the wall of my new life. Not a boundary fence really, but more of a construct of my own making. My complete, and thankfully short term, loss of confidence after 10 years of caring plus Covid lockdowns, plus a dead husband have all shaken my foundations and I am tired of tripping over the rubble of it. I am a sturdy, sure-footed woman, fleet and curious, excited about life and on the other side of death by over 2 years. I want to learn how to be alone with confidence, appreciating the joys of freedom after many years and to experience, through a new way of seeing, how wonderfully lush the world really is. I have hidden under tables, under the bedclothes, in the cupboard under the stairs for long enough now. My time being under is over.

I don’t plan to take my long haul suitcase, large enough for a small pony, not for 3 days, so I borrow one from my son. It looks perfect, perfect, that is, until I see the piles of stuff that will need to fit within its perfect space. My laptop, plus charger, my sewing paraphernalia, no charger required, my blue-tooth speaker plus charger, my phone plus charger, my ground coffee plus cafetière, my washbag, make-up kit, sun preventer, sun soother, after sun balm, mosquito protector spray, calamine lotion for any sneaky bites, my writing pad and pen, my anti histamine, vitamin tabs, lip balm, flip-flops, costume, cardy, clock, torch for power outage, nightie, underpinnings and the case is bulging full. There is just room, just, for four rolled up frocks, squished in and sat upon. It wonders me this packing lark. Although I always travel light, in all senses of the word, I seem to be struggling with this short stayaway. What is it that has me packing for the end of the world? Well, once inside the wildlife estate, no going out at night #leopard and no car to drive myself anywhere, I need to be independently equipped for sunburn, a plague of mosquitos focussed solely on me, for all possible internal combustions, a sneezing fit (take tissues), cracked lips, tongue ulcers, beri beri fever, hyena attack, malaria and floods. Why? Don’t the owners of the guest house keep all that in their cupboards? Are they not more than able to deal with any of my imaginary fears should they manifest, which is about as likely as Johnny Depp knocking on my door to invite me out for dinner? It laughs me but I don’t take anything out of the case.

Remember, I admonish myself, that of all the fears you have listened to in your long life, only one came true, the one that named you Carer, and you got through that didn’t you, with humour and grace, despite the accompanying horrors? I nod, yes, true, but…..No Buts! I hear inside my head. Okay, okay, no buts. I’m still not taking anything out of the case. She rolls her eyes at me, Mrs Sensible does, I can feel them revolving and they tickle me. All those imaginary fears and only one came true, the big one. If I could have chosen a different fear manifesting itself, I would have. Might have. Wouldn’t have. Why is that? Well I can answer that one. Despite the battles within, when I felt like Gollum versus Smee around himself, and without, during The Resistance to Everything, the calling out of my name a hundred times a day for no good reason and the way he was alone with me, dark and preoccupied, but light and chirpy around the carers, nurses, doctors and professionals, it was a role I do not regret playing, not at all. In lockdown, when nobody crossed the threshold, not even the carers, we found an easy peace, uninterrupted, unchallenged by said interruptions, the days seemed to flow. Even when I was called often in the night, I didn’t mind, so focussed was I on keeping his dignity. I found and held onto compassion and light, changing as he did, pushing for nothing, sitting to talk when he wanted me to listen, gently, softly, lonely but entirely present and travelling light, from room to room, task to task.

So, where is your travelling light thingy gone? Asks Mrs Sensible. Oh shut up woman and please don’t come with me today. I’ll do what I want with my ‘in case of stuff’ plan and if I return unscathed you can smirk all you like. I make my own decisions now and, you can be sure that I will take the consequences thereof. Therof! she cackles as I shove her under the duvet, zip up my case, close the bedroom door and head out into a new adventure.

As I pack my bag for the trip to the Reader Room on Skye, I meet all sorts of thought tangles. What to take, what not to take and in which suitcase. The big stripey one or the smaller spotty one? Both have noisy wheels and both weigh too much empty. I won’t need much, will I? Just jeans and tops, a warm jumper, walking boots, books, notes, wash things, face paint, a frock for the night, leggings. The smaller spotty one will do. Until it won’t.

Travelling light is a dream of mine, almost a passion. I want to be light and flexible, easy to move along please, to glide through doorways, over metal bridges without needing CPR on the other side. I want to fit into that space the huge-suitcased lumberers leave between themselves and the dangerous side of the pavement or platform. To scurry, hurtle, dash with momentum and forward thrust. I want to be at my destination before half of these goodly folk have reached the ticket barrier. I catch earlier trains that way, denying myself the takeaway coffee, the creamy bun. I don’t push or shove. I am perfectly respectful of the Overladen, but my constantly working mind maps out the fast route and my feet take me on. I don’t mind queuing at all and must be the only Brit who doesn’t. I just factor it into my dash to wherever I’m going, and speed up where necessary when momentum is paused.

Travelling light, I tell myself, is a state of mind, a decision. Taking too many changes of clothing, just in case, comes from a place of fear. Will I have the ‘right’ thing to wear? Will I be too cold or too hot? Have I the right shoes? All of this is dithering and arrives me laden, out of breath, hot, bothered, and with a load of unnecessary vestments, not one of which gets beyond crumpling itself in the dark depths of my suitcase. But we all do this dithering, if we’re honest.

When I first decided to travel light, it was to a funeral in Yorkshire. I just needed the gear for the church, and mufti. We said bye bye to the kids, minder, collies and cats and left Tapselteerie. It was coming into York that we discovered we had left the cases in the front hall. As our life had always been lived by making good decisions quickly in the face of adversity, we dived into a dress shop and bought this and this and that, then shoes, and arrived at the funeral with the labels still attached. Nobody cared. It was enough that we had made the journey.

The second time was when I went South for a different occasion, on my own. This time, I did have my lightly packed suitcase with me, too heavy even when empty, and handed it over to the nice Easy Jet steward at check-in. I arrived, my case did not. Mum and I dashed to Sainsbury’s, picked this and this and yes, shoes, and off I went to my date. Nobody cared. It was enough that I had made the journey. My case arrived home ahead of me, minus a handle, rendering it completely pointless.

It has happened since, the careful planning, folding, fitting into a small space, all that I think I might need, in case of shipwrecks, strandings, sudden invitations to a military ball, a funeral, a heatwave in October, that my luggage has abandoned me. I have always found a laugh in it, after my initial fish wife impression. I have borrowed clothes I would never buy, applied make-up all wrong for my small pale face, shared toothpaste, boots and even underwear, but, most of all, I was given the chance to find my sense of humour and to lean on it as my support. In the absence of things, I found people, and people can rise over things every time. It’s boundless, the human spirit, warm and strong and constant. Their handles don’t fall off, and in the main, they do what they say they’ll do, and much, much more.

But we forget don’t we, as we live out our lives as islands. We think we must have everything we need with us, just in case. We imagine, with horror, the disaster of being cold, or hot, or lost, or stranded, of our train/ferry/plane being late or worse, cancelled, and yet, in all of those circumstances I have found human warmth and friendship. I have found team spirit, good attitude and kindness. In times of trouble, we look to each other. Sometimes we might consider doing that every day, troubled or not. It might make us less fearful. We might engage in sharing ourselves with others until it’s easy to do, natural, uncomplicated. All of us are alone, but we can travel side by side.

Now I’m going back to fret about packing, about the ferry being cancelled due to gale force 22, the bus breaking down on the way north, and, finally, me arriving on the wrong day.