Sienna Elizabeth RaimondeTHE BAGS OF LIFEToday I got a new bag. Over the past couple of years, I find myself waking up to the sound of the dog barking about every two weeks. Sometimes it’s a book that the mailman brings which sets off the barking; normally, it’s a new bag. I was beginning to worry about this bag fixation. I remember a time when I would get a bag and keep it for many years, finally using it as a secondary bag because it had become sentimental. My green bag now hangs in my room when I don’t bring it to the library. I bought it mail order when I was just beginning college. My youngest daughter was four, and she would sit at my feet playing, next to the green bag, while I took out various books, notebooks, and other college paraphernalia to work on my next paper. I carried the bag everywhere: church, school, outings, in-laws, parties, and even weddings where I would keep it discreetly locked in the back seat of the car. I just couldn’t leave it home—it was my bag. In a sense—it was my life. Now, I can’t seem to find the perfect bag. I try one out and discover it has faults I just can’t live with. One navy blue bag was shaped like a water bottle. I really like it. But it had a tendency of falling off my shoulder every move I made. Also, when I went to the library, I could only fit a book or two inside of it. It was easy to grab, and it organized my stuff nicely, but these small flaws sent me into a state of chronic anxiety. I had to find that perfect bag. Another one I tried looked ideal at first. It wasn’t exactly a book bag, but held enough books to be worthwhile. It didn’t have the easy to reach outside pocket the other one had, but it did have two water bottle carriers on the outside. At last, I had found my bag. But after a short while, I realized it didn’t plop down as nicely as the last bag. You had to lean it up against something. It was a nightmare—my bag was lopsided! Quickly, I dumped all my belongings out onto the floor and relocated them inside my old wine skin bag. “I knew I should have stuck with the old one,” I said. But then it was library day and I remembered how insufficient my old bag was. It was time for a new one. This bag dilemma has gone on for some time. My husband and children are beginning to wonder what my problem is. Of course I tell them, “It’s the bags—I cant’ find the right bag!” But somehow they couldn’t understand what the “bag crisis” was all about, and frankly, neither could I. Until today. While I was sitting outside to catch the fresh smell of spring in the air, I started thinking about my bag situation. It was a good time for a muse—I could sense a revelation coming upon me—and there it was. I’ve hit the dreaded period of life called, “middle age.” The bags represent my life . . . I just can’t get it right . . . I”ve just got to get it right. Deciding upon the right color becomes a matter of life or death. What color is my life? I used to carry a green bag, but green just doesn’t fit the profile now. I’ve lost a lot of the innocence that green represented. The sense of spring being right around the corner ignites all of our senses. How we long for spring and the hope of new beginnings. The hopeless optimism emerges...I miss green, but green was for that time, not this time. What about blue? While things aren’t quite as green as they once were, neither are they black. But blue—yes, that would fit. So my last bag was a royal blue color. But…everything’s got to fit. I need room for a lot of books. Books are my companions. At this stage in life, I’ve lost many friends and family members but I still have books saved from my youth. Books don’t die, or betray you, or reject you—they just are. I have to be able to hold my books. Secondly, there is the other stuff that just makes me feel a bit more secure: flashlight, aspirin, tissues, nail clippers, Swiss Army Knife, band-aides, and other odds and ends that have to fit somewhere inside this new bag. They have to fit like they belong. I’ve got to get it right. My life depends on it.
|