EPILOGUE

Lightening Your Load

We have heard from hundreds of readers of Repacking. And many have told us the same thing: after finishing the book, the first thing they did was to tear through their closets and throw away all kinds of stuff they no longer needed. Old clothes, unused exercise equipment, dusty books and records, all went to the trash heap or Goodwill box.

There’s something incredibly liberating about purging ourselves of unnecessary accumulation. It’s like a great big sigh of relief to walk through that emptied attic or cleared-out basement. We shake our heads and wonder what in the world we were holding onto that stuff for anyway, and ask why we waited so long to get rid of it all in the first place.

But, of course, there’s more to repacking than merely cleaning out our closets; and there’s more to lightening our loads than merely getting rid of material possessions we no longer want. But what is it? And how can we undertake it so as to experience the profound changes so many repackers have reported?

Perhaps the most important thing we’ve learned in the seventeen years since Repacking first came out is that the act of repacking is ultimately purposeful. By this we mean that it is an act which is grounded in our appreciation of something larger than ourselves. Repacking entails wondering about what really matters to us and that can only be done by placing ourselves in a context that includes more than just our own individual experience.

Now, this doesn’t mean that we have to align ourselves with a religious organization or go see a guru to authentically repack. It does mean, though, that we have to ask the big questions about what really matters and why.

The great challenge here is that no one can do it for us. There’s no off-the-shelf ready-to-wear pre-formatted kit; to really lighten our load requires that we live in our own big questions.

And it’s easy enough to think we already have the answers when we still have a long way to go.

Dave recalls the following:

I remember soon after the original version of Repacking came out. I was feeling very proud of myself — being a published author finally and all — and fairly certain that I knew all about what lightening one’s load was all about. One day, I was on my way to a business meeting with a prospective client. His office wasn’t far from my house, so I was riding my bike. In my pannier, I had my laptop computer, an extra shirt, a mobile phone, and a loaf of bread. I remember thinking, “This is all I need in the world. This is the essence of repacking. If I could get rid of everything else and just keep what I have with me right now, that would be perfect.”

That, of course, was true, until it began to rain. Hard. And that’s right when I began wishing I had more in my pannier — a rain jacket, for one, something warm to drink, a change of shoes and socks. I arrived at my business meeting soaked to the skin. Fortunately, my prospective client was a friend, so he didn’t complain too much when I dripped all over his sofa. (I didn’t, however, get any work from him.)

Riding home in the rain, I looked forward to my warm house, dry clothes, and a cup of hot coffee, all of which were waiting for me upon my arrival. Not only that, but I got plenty of sympathy and affection from my wife, Jennifer, who handed me a nice fluffy towel to dry my dripping hair, too.

As I curled up in my easy chair with my steaming cup of java, it occurred to me that I needed more than just my bike and the few things I was carrying on the ride. I was glad I had a home, someone who cared for me, and various creature comforts that made life good. Lightening the load was one thing; eliminating everything just for the sake of simplicity was another.

It Isn’t What We Have, It’s How We Have It

The question then remains: “How much (or how little) is enough?” How do we figure out what we really need? What does lightening your load really feel like?

The answer is: we all know. Every one of us has had the experience of having all that we need and no more, that feeling of being truly satisfied in the world. It’s beside the point whether that’s in a tent, eating freeze-dried macaroni at the end of a long day’s hike, or in a luxury hotel, having a 5-course room-service dinner after lounging around the pool all afternoon. It isn’t what we have, it’s how we have it. The challenge is to match our values with our stuff, so that what we have is what we want — both literally and figuratively.

Many spiritual traditions teach us that the key to spiritual enlightenment is overcoming our attachments. We believe that a similar sort of worldly enlightenment follows not from eliminating our wants, but from coming to understand them in terms of their usefulness to our life’s purpose. As we’ve said many times, some of what we’re carrying is helping us get where we want to in life; other stuff is just weighing us down. Many of our wants are necessary to our happiness; others — often manufactured and revved up by the media and advertising — actually prevent us from being happy. So, we advocate learning to want what we have as opposed to being buffeted about by random desires. It makes sense to want a rain jacket if there’s a risk it’s going to pour, but not so much to desire a huge umbrella if there’s not a cloud in the sky.

In philosophies as different as that of the ancient Greek Aristotle and the Indian sage Patanjali, we find emphasis on the personal characteristic of temperance or continence. This is the virtue or practice that has to do with regulation of the appetites. Very broadly, what is advocated isn’t self-denial, but rather, a healthy appetite for life. Aristotle, for instance, encourages us to enjoy the pleasures of food, drink, and sexuality; however, we are admonished to do so in the right way at the right time, as the virtuous person would.

This is consistent with our message here. Lightening one’s load doesn’t entail fasting and asceticism; rather, it’s a matter of wanting and having the right amount at the right time in the right way and for the right reasons. It’s not about eliminating desires; it’s about learning not to be controlled by them. It isn’t what we have; it’s how we have it.

Back to the Rhythm

“That’s it.” Daudi Peterson points out ahead to Rocky and me. “The Yaida Valley. Where the Hadzas are.”

For several years, Daudi and Richard had been talking about going “back to the rhythm” — to travel with the Hadzas and learn their traditional hunter-gatherer ways.

Daudi says he’s long been attracted to this wild country, an area which on the map, “has yet to be divided into straight lines.” And he’s right. Less than half a mile from the road, the last signs of civilization abruptly ends. Africa — the real Africa — begins, which means endless thornbush, rough tracks, and in this case, a steep descent into the Yaida Valley.

And an even steeper descent back to the rhythm.

As we make our way off the edge of a changing world, into a rugged, prehistoric-looking landscape, we literally feel as if we are dropping back into the past.

The earliest inhabitants of Tanzania were hunter-gatherers that occupied the area at least 70,000 years ago. Some of their shelters, stone tools, and weapons have survived. So have the Hadza, who are thought to be remnants of those early people.

“Where’s the coke bottle?”

Rocky has whispered to me the exact same words — a reference to the film The Gods Must Be Crazy — that were going through my head. This place, and the people we are meeting, all look straight out of a Discovery Channel documentary on our hunter-gatherer ancestors.

Our three Hadza guides are wearing cloth that matches the color of the parched ground on which they stand. Each carries a bow that’s about the same size as he is, but he also speaks with an intensity that seems at least as dangerous as the poison arrows in his quiver.

Perhaps because of their relative isolation and resistance to outsiders, the Hadza have developed a substantial degree of self-consciousness. As shy as they seem, they are genuinely pleased to welcome us to their village and to show us the old ways of hunting and gathering.

In a “blinding glimpse of the obvious,” I realize that this is not going to be your typical vacation. A vacation, according to the dictionary, is a “respite from something.” This, on the other hand, is a journey into something — what Rocky calls the “Land of I Don’t Know.” It’s a rare opportunity to venture down untrodden paths, to get out from under the safety net of interpreted experience. It’s an opportunity, I realize, that I’ve really been hungering for.

Rocky says that when he crosses from the “Land of I Know” into the “Land of I Don’t Know” that he has to attain a beginner’s mind, to be non-judgmental, and to go into situations admitting that he knows nothing at all. He tries to see the people around him as neither strange nor foreign, but simply as people — his own people.

It takes us no more than an hour to cross completely into the “Land of I Don’t Know” and to get back to the rhythm I was seeking — where schedules are forgotten and experience feels pure.

We follow behind the Hadza guides as they move silently through the bush, vanishing and then, like apparitions, suddenly reappearing. To see them stalking is a revelation. Here are the original hunter-gatherers, completely in tune with their natural environment. So light are their movements that a dry twig rarely cracks under their feet. Thorns hardly delay them, and when Rocky, Daudi, and I become hopelessly entangled in these “wait-a-bit” bushes, our guides remove them with swift gentleness before the barbs can hook us deeply.

Suddenly, the smallest man, Maroba, stops and stares at a huge baobab tree twenty yards away. We hear the whistle of a birdsong and Maroba whistles back. He points to a small gray bird, about the size of a robin, fluttering from branch to branch.

“He wants to show us the honey, the sweet honey that we like so much,” says Maroba. “He is the Honey Guide — a friend of the Hadza.”

For the next half hour, we hurry after the bird as it flies from tree to tree, leading us on. At intervals, it stops and waits, anxious as a dog for its master, whistling for us to hurry. And Maroba, his face filled with joy, whistles back.

Finally, the bird alights on a large acacia tree, to which it directs us with a joyous, anticipatory song. Maroba surveys the tree for a brief moment and quickly locates the beehive in it. He collects a dry clump of grass and sets it on fire by spinning a fire-stick between his hands. Once the fire has taken, he grasps the burning clump and plunges it into a hole in the tree to smoke out the bees.

I’m mesmerized by how he avoids getting stung. Time and again he carefully reaches into the hole — all the way up to his shoulder — and pulls out handfuls of honeycomb, wax, and larvae. The first few batches he shovels into his mouth. The rest he shares with his companions and us, leaving an ample portion for the Honey Guide patiently waiting its turn in the tree above.

Throughout the morning the same scenario repeats itself over and over. New Honey Guides suddenly appear to lead us on another wild treasure hunt. But later, in the growing heat of the African sun, our three Hadza hosts seem to lose their way. One or another of them is constantly zig-zagging away, apparently off to check for landmarks of some sort. I’m amazed that they can find their way back to us, much less out of the bush, and I’m thinking that if they’re lost, then we’re really lost, and it’s going to take a lot more than a Honey Guide to show us the way home.

To make matters worse, we’re all getting pretty thirsty. Nothing like a breakfast of honey and bee larvae to parch the palate. And as far as Rocky, Daudi, and I can tell, this land is as dry as we are. But the Hadza assure us that there is a river nearby that, even during the current drought, will have water.

Just as I’m starting to wish for a “Water Guide” to show up, the Hadza lead us down to the river — several pools of water in the blistering hot sand which appear to have been the watering holes for a herd of zebra the night before. How they found this little oasis is beyond me, but I’m too busy refreshing myself to ask questions.

Rocky, losing steam from heat and the effects of too many helpings of bee pollen and larvae, crashes in the shade of a some trees on the river bank.

The Secret of Life

In retrospect, Richard realized that with the Hadza, they were never lost. Which is to say, they always were. But unlike most of us, the Hadza knew how to stand still and listen. To let the trees find them. In their willingness to treat the unknown as a powerful stranger and welcome it into their lives, they demonstrated their understanding of the real secret of life:

Presence is everything.

The Hadza knew how to simultaneously make life happen and let life happen. No matter what they did, they did it with their whole selves — fully present in the moment. Moving joyfully through the harsh environment in a state of flow, they focused on one thing and only one thing at a time. But in doing so, the whole world opened up to them.

Richard recalls what that felt like:

Never have I traveled with so little, yet never have I felt so secure, so alive. Most of the time, I trek with enough to cover all the contingencies; this time, we just walked off into the bush and started living. At times, I feel that my life has not yet started — that I’m waiting for just the right time to really begin. With the Hadza, I realized that unless, like Maroba, I can learn to see everything as if it were for the first time, the future will always be a disappointment.

Simply Finding Yourself

When the Hadza “lost” their trail in the forest, they didn’t panic. They didn’t engage in a lot of frantic activity trying to figure out where they were and where to go next. Instead, they engaged their senses. They listened. They looked. They let themselves experience the experience.

In today’s radically changing world, we all feel lost from time to time — or perhaps, most of the time. We keep trying to retrace our steps back to a place that feels familiar, a place to gather our bearings, but those places are gone forever. More than ever before, being lost is a familiar place. So we need to find a way, like the Hadza, to turn that experience into a way of finding ourselves.

It takes courage and acceptance — courage to face the new, and acceptance of one’s need to learn. It’s the difference between the attitude of a tourist and an adventurer. The tourist merely visits life, checking sites off a list. The adventurer experiences life, immersing head and heart in the totality of it. Ultimately, the difference has to do with a willingness to get lost.

An entry from Richard’s Africa journal the evening after his day with the Hadza makes it clear.

Being lost in Africa is incredibly important to me. I experience so much about myself — not all of it pleasant — and that’s the stuff I need to keep in touch with. This last year I’ve spent more time promoting living than I did living. Here today, I realize that I’m tired of trying to promote a sense of hope and living up to others’ image of me. Today, I was not explaining life, but living it. And it felt great.

I’m happiest, it seems, out here where life is least complex. Where life is the simplest, I realize all that matters is love — relationships I have with Andy, Greta, Sally, and those around me, a sense of place — being connected to the earth, and work — doing work that I love. Beyond that, everything is simply maintenance.

“Why Must Success Weigh So Much?”

“Jambo Richard! Habari gani?”

Koyie greets me in Swahili, asking for the news. We are standing in the center of his kraal, surrounded by about a hundred noisy animals — cows, donkeys, and goats. Koyie looks right at home, but I am shifting around nervously. I feel crowded by the animals and their smell, even in the cool evening air, is overpowering.

Koyie’s life revolves around his animals. It’s understandable, since they provide most of what he needs to subsist. Their milk is part of his daily fare; their skin a basic material for clothing; their blood may be used as an emergency ration. Even their dung is used for fuel and building — nothing is wasted.

Koyie and I stand in the semi-darkness discussing cattle. He tells me of the intimate bond that exists between his animals and himself. He knows each of his cattle by voice, by color, and by the names he has for them all.

Two of Koyie’s children arrive, lowering their heads for the touch of my hand in greeting. I am deferred to as a mzee — an elder — an honor which, I comfort myself, is accorded to persons older than thirty.

Koyie leads me toward the boma of the first of his three wives. Its outer appearance resembles a long oval loaf of brown bread. The curved entrance is a dark tunnel to prevent rain and flies from finding their way into the cool, smoky-smelling living area.

In a small hearth made of three stones, two one-inch sticks are burning, providing a constant light and temperature. On either side are two sleeping coves, neatly crafted with tightly woven sticks covered by bare skins. One cove is for husband and wife, the other for children or guests.

Koyie’s wife, a small woman with large, bright eyes and delicate features, greets me in a soft voice. She continues to breastfeed her child while stirring a fresh batch of honey beer.

Honey beer is the traditional Maasai drink for elders and guests at ritual ceremonies. It may take up to three weeks to make. The golden liquid is prepared in a large, round calabash and placed near the fire to ferment under the careful attention of a skilled brewmaster like Koyie’s wife.

Standing there, I am struck by the apparent perfection of the scene. It seems to me that here, in this simple boma, Koyie has it all — a sense of place, love, meaningful work, and a purpose.

Though his world is small, Koyie’s concerns are large. Even now, he is deeply involved in shaping the future of his people and their fight for their own version of the good life. A true visionary, Koyie can see the coming challenges. The Maasai, like people everywhere, are in the midst of radical change — change where the young are moving away from their elders, impatient to discover what the modern world has to offer. So I am doubly impressed by his ability to maintain a sense of quiet calm amidst the building storm.

Offering me a honey beer, Koyie asks, “So Richard, what kind of good life are these people traveling with you seeking? The more people you bring to my village, the clearer it becomes that most are seeking something. At the start of your treks, all these people, all these successful people, seem to be struggling with some heavy weight. So I ask you, why must success weigh so much?”

I answer that I think all these people are searching for their own vision of the good life. Then, I ask him what he thinks. He sets down his honey beer and picks up the new journal and pen that I have brought him as a gift. He writes quickly but neatly, in careful strokes. He shows me what he has written, in Maa, the Maasai language:

Meetay oidpa, oitumura ake-etay

“It’s an old Maasai saying, a definition of the good life,” explains Koyie. “It means something like living passionately for today and purposefully for tomorrow. It means you can only enjoy now, no matter how rich you are. It all comes to an end soon.”

He keeps trying to make it clearer. “It means being able to be happy today is the real proof of success. It may seem simple to you, Richard, but the good life to me means appreciating all the ways I am already a success — my health, my cattle, children, good rains. What’s the use of worrying about enough milk for next week unless I can enjoy the milk now? Does that make sense?”

I sip my honey beer and reflect on how he has captured perfectly what I’ve been striving to say all along. But it’s always like this with Koyie. When I’m with him, speaking the language haltingly, feeling like a shy student, I somehow get in touch with and reveal parts of myself that usually remain hidden to others — even to myself. I experience all the basic human vulnerabilities, feelings of incompetence, and deep-seated needs for approval. But somehow, Koyie makes me feel what I think we all know somewhere deep inside — that our true value is more than what we do, how much we make, or how many things we own — it’s simply who we are.

“So Richard, what do you think? The best I can offer you and your friends is to live passionately for today and purposefully for tomorrow. Does that help?”

That evening, after I leave Koyie, his words and image remain in my mind, and they hearten me, rekindling my faith in human nature. I see the picture of Koyie, the Maasai elder, his blanket around him, gazing at the fire, and off toward the infinite horizon. Koyie has lightened his load by living passionately for today and purposefully for tomorrow.

Learning to pack and repack our bags — is a central lesson of our time. But it is a lesson we all can learn by living passionately for today and purposefully for tomorrow, and in doing so, lighten our load to live the good life.