“Your suitcase is overweight,” said my wife as we prepared to leave the Poconos.
“Impossible,” I said. “I have hardly bought anything.”
She looked at the gifts, books, clothes and assorted objects that had mysteriously multiplied during our holiday.
“You have packed half of America,” she said.
I opened the suitcase and began repacking. A shirt came out. A book followed. Then another shirt that I had not worn even once but had carried thousands of miles just in case the President invited me to dinner.
Yet the suitcase remained heavy.
Then I realised what was weighing it down.
I had packed the mountains.
Somewhere between my socks and sweaters lay the tall trees that had stood silently outside our home. Underneath my shoes was the little brook whose cheerful chatter had greeted me each morning. Tucked carefully beside my harmonica was the stillness of Lake Naomi, and squeezed into a corner was the deer that had occasionally looked at me with the calm superiority of a permanent resident watching a noisy tourist.
“No wonder the bag is overweight,” I whispered.
“What did you say?” asked my wife.
“Nothing,” I replied, quickly closing the suitcase before the deer escaped.
Leaving a beautiful place is never easy. When we arrive, we behave like conquerors. We photograph everything. We pose before mountains, lean against trees and stand beside lakes as if we personally created them.
But when it is time to leave, the mountains remain where they are.
The trees do not wave goodbye. The brook does not stop flowing to mourn our departure. The deer does not accompany us to the airport.
Nature carries on without us.
Perhaps that is one of the lessons a mountain teaches. We are not as indispensable as we imagine. Offices continue functioning during our holidays. Cities survive our absence. Even our mobile phones manage remarkably well when we stop staring at them.
But holidays are not meant merely to give us photographs of beautiful places. They are meant to send us home as slightly different people.
The real test of the peace I found in the Poconos will not come while I sit beside a quiet lake. It will come when I return to traffic, horns, deadlines and people who believe indicators are decorative lights fitted to cars.
Can I carry the silence of the woods into the noise of the city? Can I remember the patience of the mountains when somebody pushes ahead of me in a queue? Can I allow the brook to continue singing inside me when life becomes difficult?
The airline may charge me for extra clothes, books and gifts.
But it cannot charge me for memories.
I had come to the Poconos hoping the mountains would give me peace.
As I prepared to leave, I realised they had not given me peace at all.
They had merely shown me where it had always been..!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
