Checking Your Baggage

You can't reach midlife (or beyond) without some baggage. Baggage is different than luggage. Luggage is the stuff you cram 8 weeks of wardrobe changes into and then try to stuff in the overhead compartment. Baggage is something that you drag with you and is crammed into your psyche. Luggage has wheels and a handle. Baggage affixes itself to you and weighs you down. Luggage is full of wonderful things that you love. Baggage is full of crap that you don't love...or even like. Luggage is something you choose and then buy. Baggage you inherit from your life experiences.
You can lose your luggage; you can only hope to lose your baggage.

Is it true that our baggage makes us who we are? If this is true (and sadly, it probably is)does that make us the embodiment of Tramp Art? Something decorative, fashioned from bits and pieces of cast off and broken stuff, and held together with glue? Maybe. But you know what, that ain't so bad. If we are covered with the flotsam and jetsom of our lives then we can be assured of one thing - there is no one like us anywhere on the earth. We are amazingly unique...sometimes outrageous, often gaudy...but definately one-of-a-kind. I can live with that.

Consider the image of Tramp Art. This form of folk art was born in the late 19th century and continued through the 1940's. The tramps (not to be confused with sluts or loose women) were, in essence, folk artists who created incredible, although often gaudy, carvings, boxes and whatnots from discarded wood and found objects. Many were intracately carved and decorated. The myth around Tramp Art is that the objects they made were sold primarily to get money to eat. Actually, many of these folks were artists and they simply liked to make stuff.

No one wants to buy our baggage. Heck, no one really wants to hear about it. Yet we willingly haul it out at every opportunity we have. Why do we do that? Does it provide an excuse for our inexcusable behavior? Is it proof to others that we are survivors? I don't know about you but I am tired of being trapped in a room full of other people's inner stuff. I'm sorry your Mother sucked. Get over it! I feel your pain when you tell me about your sad, lonely childhood..but honey, that was fifty years ago! What has happened in the intervening years? Yes, your high school boyfriend broke your heart, but you were sixteen!!! You know what I'm talking about. We tend to wear our baggage like badges of honor. We let our baggage tell our story. Really? Do you want your baggage to be your story? I sure hope not.

As you work on your reinvention, consider jettisoning the baggage that weighs you down. Go see a therapist who can help you. Do something. Re-write the story of the last half of your life. Think how much lighter you will feel.