Lightening Your Load {and regretting it}

Have you ever thrown something away, only to find yourself in desperate need of that very item a week later?  That sort of thing seems to happen to me with some frequency.  Of course you had zero need of the thing for the year it was sitting untouched and neglected in your junk drawer or hall closet.  But that's the way it goes.

Have you ever cast aside some aspect of yourself, only to regret it later?  It won't be the next week or the next month, and maybe not even the next year.  It takes longer.  But have you ever taken a hard, long look at yourself and missed the you you used to be?  It happens.

I have travel on the brain, so here's the metaphor.

In Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, he gives an entertaining account of his efforts to hike "the AT" (Appalachian Trail), which spans 14 states (from Georgia to Maine) and 2100 miles.  (I sometimes dream of doing this myself, but then come to, and remember that I have responsibilities . . . .)  His family has recently moved from England to New Hampshire, and he discovers that the Appalachian Trail snakes right through his town.  The idea starts as a crazy whim, but then he actually decides to do it.  He reconnects with Steven Katz, an old high-school friend from Iowa (who provides much comic relief, but uses bad language at times, so be warned).  Katz is ill-suited to the task in every imaginable way.

Bryson and Katz pack all sorts of equipment and provisions for the journey, some of which are useful and important, and some not.  Tents, sleeping pads, nested pots and pans, eating utensils, water purifiers, patching kit, sleeping bags, water bottles, ponchos, matches, pack covers, compasses, stove, gas bottles, head lamps, knives, clothes, etc.  Katz insists on some other items, many of which are hanging off the side of his pack on the first day on the trail:  grubby sneakers, boots, pepperoni sausages, rice, cookies, oatmeal, raisins, M&Ms, Spam, Snickers, sunflower seeds, bricks of cheese, canned bacon, Little Debbies (lots and lots of them), and bologna.

The first day on the trail requires a hike up Springer Mountain in Georgia.  Bryson and Katz are both completely overwhelmed by the difficulty of the task -- especially Katz, who is very much weighed down by all his provisions.  Bryson finally leaves Katz behind.  When Bryson stops late in the day to wait for Katz to catch up, it takes quite some time.  Katz finally appears, with a pack that has been emptied of much of its contents.  In his anger and exhaustion, he threw all sorts of items out, lightening his load in the process.  Some important and some foolish in the first place.  Spam?   Over the edge of the mountain.  Brown sugar, peanuts and cheese?  Gone.  Extra shoes?  Gone.  And so on.

As we all ascend our own personal Springer Mountains, there will be times when we cast aside parts of ourselves to continue the trek.  Some of what we send flying over the edge is good riddance.  Spam.  Goodbye.  How much of what we carry is dead weight -- something we should have never packed in the first place?  Something that must be cast off if we are to progress.

But sometimes, I think we cast off pieces that -- while perhaps not essential -- will be missed at some later point in the journey.  That has certainly been true for me.  How much of what makes up your own individual essence have you flung to the side of your path as you trudged forward toward your goal?  Have you tossed aside talents, interests and priorities only to later wish you hadn't?  Do you ever look around your destination at your fellow travelers, struck by how unlike they are to the you you used to be?  Might have been?  Or maybe only I do that.

Here's a "me" (from an old yearbook) that doesn't remotely resemble the present "me."  At least some days, I think that's a grand shame. {I don't look anything the same, but that's certainly not the part that's the shame.  Who knows why I thought this look was a good one back in the late 80s!}

*In truth, I was actually never a very good artist.  But I did have a great love for the arts of all kinds and was happiest in the midst of it.  Now, I still get my liberal arts kicks in my own way.  For me, there is a certain joy when I can insert a literary allusion in a speech, brief filed with the court or oral argument.  Even if very few of my fellow travelers notice or get it. It makes me happy, and that's enough.