The last thing I want to experience, but have many times, is getting to the international check-in 'going to Africa' desk, and the luggage is overweight. There, right in front of many impatient eyes standing behind you, you have to unpack your undies and everything else, redistribute the weight and finally decide which of the precious cargo is not as precious as the rest in order to leave it behind. The curving line of eyes watch and they know. They've had to do it before too. Probably more than once. If you fly coach, to a developing country, are visiting family or friends, you know this process. Packing is an ordeal.
Really, I hate packing. When you think about it, luggage allowance does not allow all the stuff one wants to take to a school that caters to orphans and underprivileged children. Honestly, there shouldn't be a limit on that. Nor does it cover all the gifts you want to take for all the people you know who can not afford to spend money on items that are not crucial for day to day survival. Usually the clothes that I need take the least amount of space, but now there are three of us going this time. This is the first time my children will have traveled this far. Surely you should get an extra five pounds each for a first time trip to Africa.
50 pounds each sounds like a lot, and it is, if you are the one lugging the suitcase around. Another thing I hate. But do you know how quickly 50 lbs adds up when you are packing mountains for gifts? Consider the weight of a gift of a pair of earrings. Or that silk scarf that I overlooked in my closet for the last three years but now must find a new home across the Atlantic. Or the pair of pajamas I bought at TJ Max for Muzeeyi. The two matchbox cars I found in the basement that Patrick used to play with, may just tip the scale over 50 lbs. African books for the Cultural Center I found on amazon.com easily weigh 15 lbs or more. And Martha insisted I bring desk name tags from the teachers' store. (Not many primary schools can boast of desk name tags, can they? Probably because they weigh too much.) Or how about the dresses and slips that I saved to take for Agnes, as a gift from my mother who died just last October? Can't the airlines give me a break? Don't they understand? There are extenuating circumstances here. And I hate packing.
My mother. It was her parting gift that is allowing me and my children to visit Africa. It is an expensive trip. She couldn't have afforded such a gift while she was alive though she worked full time till she was 74, till she got sick for the last time. Mom thank you very much for giving us this beautiful wonderful gift of visiting Uganda. I think she's glad I waited till she died to take the kids because if she were alive she'd be worried.
"Lori, are you sure it will be safe for the kids? Can't you wait until they are older? Why don't you take them somewhere closer or to the beach?"
And I'd answer, '"Mom, the kids will be ok. Carolynne and Patrick are old enough now. And remember? I have been there several times and I wouldn't take the children if I thought it wasn't safe."
Then she would deeply sigh. Again and again, during the entire time we were away and up until the time we returned from our trip and walked through the door to greet her. Only then could she breathe normally.
I miss her. She's with the ancestors now. When I speak to the school community at Brain Tree, probably on the day of the Cultural Center's grand opening, July 3rd, I will mention the gift of my mother's life and the gift of her death. How she is part of the Cultural Center now, it's creation, and is hanging around with the other ancestors. I like that thought. I always wanted her to go to Africa.
When my mother died, Brain Tree had a ritual in honor of my mother. They planted a tree in her name and offered prayers for her soul and my life. All the children and teachers sent their condolences to me. They collected money. A community that experiences death all too often, stopped their lives to honor my mother. Africa understands death. And never takes life for granted.
My intention this morning was to write about packing. Which I hate. But it appears that my heart is heavy with loss still, as I grieve my mother. Before each piece of her clothing enters the suitcase, I hold it up to my heart, then to my face, deeply inhale trying to find the scent of her, and then lovingly fold it and place it in the suitcase. She's going with me and I don't hate packing for a few special seconds.
Thinking about packing starts to diminish as I actually do the task. It's not as monotonous as it was and it starts flowing more smoothly, more quickly. My heart expands and I feel good because I remember how all the 'packing yuck' disappears when I give everyone gifts when I arrive at my destination. The grandmothers who are raising their grandchildren forget about their tireless days for just a moment when they receive the $10 nighties from Sears. Muzeeyi's humming is louder and deeper in the hallway at night when he wears his nice soft cotton Polo pajamas from TJ Max. Agnes can throw out her thread bear slips and wear a new one with a new dress, from my mother. The children will light up when they play with Carolynne and Patrick's outgrown toys. Or wear Carolynne's outgrown A & F shirts. My Ugandan sisters, and there are many, will love to wear a new fragrance when I give them the sample size Christian Dior perfumes. Jesca, the bursar at Brain Tree, will love the fabric (from my mom) for a new sewing project. How silly and selfish I feel to have hated the packing process when the end result is heavenly.
Packing dismay is replaced by a desire to give. The first suitcase is stuffed. Love the size of a mustard seed can move and squeeze a mountain into a suitcase. I pick up the heavily laden luggage and step on the scale. Still four pounds left to go. Time for a treasure hunt through the house. And if by chance, my old scale is wrong and the weight goes over, I'll unpack and repack at the airport. I know the journey to Uganda is long, but time spent with loved ones is always too short. Every ounce of joy that adds up to 50 pounds is well worth the effort. With Africa and with my mother in her final days, I learned that it is better to take a risk and go over the known limit, than to have restricted yourself with fear and too much thought, whenever it comes to love.
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