My Suitcase, Myself

I’m packing for my trip to New York City to take care of my little grandson for the week. The mid-July weather will be blazing hot with no rain in sight, no need to pack a “just in case” raincoat or umbrella.

My suitcase is carry-on size, constructed of space age material and shaped like a mini-Airstream aluminum trailer. I’m on the ready to roll it effortlessly onto subway platforms, escalators, or elevators and zoom through crowded city streets, making my way from Penn Station to my daughter’s apartment on the Upper West Side.

Julianne and her husband don’t acquire much by way of material possessions in their urban environment. No television set, no landline, no car, use of communal washer/dryers in the basement service area. They live in a one bedroom, seventeenth floor unit for their family of three, garaging the Uppa-Baby stroller in the front hallway and their bicycles in the bedroom closet.

The massive twin towers of the San Remo Apartments define the skyline to the east. The view from the living room is expansive, unobstructed by trees or buildings. When my grandson looks out the window after his bedtime story, he can say goodnight to the lemon scoop of a moon sitting on top of the clouds and between the stars.

I’ll sleep on a sofa about as long and narrow as a dorm bed. No room anywhere to empty my suitcase. I set it on the floor alongside the sofa, my home away from home, defining my living space. My only appliance is the electrical outlet for charging my devices.

What’s left after I distribute books or toys are bare necessities and minimal changes of clothing—no decor, no luxuries. I live with exactly what’s needed for the specific length of my stay. Unburdened by responsibility for a house, a car, a schedule, I savor the sense of “lightness of being.” No storage areas for items that may (or may not) come in handy at a future date. I taste freedom.

I forget to close my suitcase one night and wake the next morning to find my grandson sitting quietly inside, exploring its contents with keen interest. Before I can dig out my camera to capture the moment, he moves on. To him, the confined space iis a domain of his own, somehow appearing in his life only when his grandmother arrives.

Packing up at the end of the week to return home, I always leave something of myself here—this time, the kitchen sparkling clean, a summer array of gorgeous peaches and Silver Queen corn on the counter, the laundry sorted and folded, sweet memories of time spent in leisure, together. We took turns pushing the stroller on warm evenings with no destination in mind, except maybe a park bench to continue the amiable chatter between us. Briefly, the extended family of four enjoys a private hour in a peaceful world, within the troubled world of our times.

I always try to take something of the young family back with me—the inspiration of their global spirit, admiration for their ease in bringing new friends and interests into their lives, delight in the way they moved so naturally from their independent lives to their married life to parenthood.

Most importantly, I celebrate their capacity to love a child so dearly.

When I return home, I have a short turnaround before leaving with David where he will make a major presentation at the week-long “Creativity and Madness” conference in Santa Fe. Not much time at all to unpack and repack between trips. I’ll replace my New York City street garb with flowing skirts and silver bracelets.

Each time I come or go presents another chance to look at myself, into myself, to choose what fits into my life and what doesn’t anymore. That’s been happening to me a lot lately, trying out new ventures or larger perspectives for size, and making room for the goals and dreams I am considering now, at age seventy-two.

I’ll have time to think about it some more on the Northeast Regional back to Boston, then in flight over Texas on the way to New Mexico. The City of Enchantment awaits.