When I was five I ran away from home. Into my dolly's white-with-red-trim square suitcase went every pair of clean underpants I owned. Even at age five, I knew enough to be prepared for any eventuality.
Over the course of my childhood, I accumulated many more suitcases. Some of them were foisted upon me by parents and other family members. Some were acquired in my school career. Some I picked up entirely voluntarily. Almost all of them were considerably heavier and more complicated than a doll's suitcase full of clean underwear.
I have been trying, with various degrees of success, to put down the suitcases I have acquired. They can get awfully heavy at times and I don't want to carry some of them, most of them, around any more. For me, setting down the suitcases involves stopping, opening them, examining the contents and their origins, and making a conscious decision about what to keep and what to abandon along the side of my life's road.
This involves some retrospection and some introspection. Most of all it involves a willingness to examine memories and long-held notions. Luckily I have a level-headed younger sister to listen and provide feedback. It's a process that elicits tears and some healthy laughter as well.
I am willing to bet that I am not the only one with suitcases.
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