Travelling Heavy

"I realised, suddenly," says Alain de Botton, in his book The Art of Travel, "that in my rush to escape to the Caribbean, I had accidentally brought myself."

I have quoted him before, but the concept remains an unresolved challenge. Clearly, the only baggage you really can't leave behind is what you carry with you inside your head. But how much should we assume that to be a problem?

There are several possible interpretations of the fact that, wherever you go, you cannot get away from yourself.

One, as implied by de Botton (in this quote only - I don't intend to reduce his much more complex article to one sentence), and indeed by me in my choice of the word 'baggage' with all the accompanying negative connotations, is that the presence of you is a blot on an otherwise idyllic landscape. You are an unwelcome stow away in your own body, ruining your fantasy and weighing you down. That you came at all is a real shame.

The second, is that the 'youness' of you is not only acceptable, but to be embraced, in all it's colourful blotchyness. 

"Close your eyes", says our yoga instructor, "and bring to mind all those feelings which are ugly to you, which you push away in shame. Let them in. Just allow yourself to be flawed. Allow yourself to be human." 

At the end of the class, in one of the 'prayers' which often start and end a yoga class, with a careful lack of definition of exactly which God we are addressing (I just listen and direct the sentiment to mine!), the same teacher gives thanks for "our selves, so perfectly imperfect."

Somewhere in the middle of these two approaches, is the self improvement philosophy, in which the acceptance that your self is always going to be tagging along with you, is followed by the resolution, in that case, to make it a better self. A sort of purgatory between the other extremes.

"Wherever I go," says our Spanish friend, back in Vietnam, "I will be the only constant, and so I seek inner peace."

If you're going to carry it with you, you may as well make it worth carrying.

Whether heaven, hell or purgatory exist as specific places, in the way we have been accustomed to imagine them, I am not sure. I suspect they have always been conceptual - easy routes for our minds to understand something supernatural. But personally, I have always been rather attracted to the concept of purgatory. I want to undertake some quest, some work to earn my passage. My human understanding of what is fair demands such a system, and finds it hard to conceive of anything else. 

In fact, such a concept probably isn't so unreasonable. Most religions depict our time on earth as some sort of quest. To be good, to amass credit, to convert, to endure. Religion aside, most moral systems and some aggressively amoral ones, still see their way to recommending particular attitudes or activities in life, though the reward tends to be more immediate and more earth based.

The trouble is that the quest is never simple. Dante's purgatory was a hill. You began at a position determined by your previous conduct, and then you worked your way up the hill, through various layers of endurance until you reached paradise. The layers weren't exactly easy (I seem to remember something about eyelids being stitched open with nails), but at least it was straightforward. You knew where you were going and how far from it you were.

Life isn't like that. But it's a tempting metaphor. And perhaps, particularly if you take the 'self improvement' approach, that's why travelling has always been associated with self discovery. It's a literal journey.

Of course, disappearing off into the sunset in order to 'find yourself' is a little cheesy and hackneyed now. Associations with drugs, dreds and tie dye have turned the concept into little more than an excuse to shrug off responsibility. 

"He was always trying to find himself" says one of the murderous ex wives in 'Chicago's 'Cell Block Tango'; "He'd go out every night

looking for himself - and on the way

he found Ruth, Gladys, Rosemary.... and Irving"

But perhaps it is precisely the shrugging off of responsibility which does reveal who you are, if you weren't already sure. Certainly I have discovered quite a lot about myself thus far. The only problem is that, rather than the romantic ideals I might have hoped for (becoming courageous, impulsive, creative etc) what I've largely uncovered are the more ugly edges. The parts I don't normally admit are there.

I have noted a capacity for snappiness, a need to plan everything or to try to control situations and an unlimited aptitude for whinging when faced with even mild discomfort. 

These features were definitely present before. What reveals them now is not the waterfalls in Vietnam or the sunrise at Angkor Wat - it's that I have run out of the usual excuses. 

At home I can say that I'm worried about work, that I'm struggling with the cold, that I'm simply too busy. I can believe that I am unpleasant because I am stuck in some situation or responsibility imposed on me. I can be sure it would be better if only this aspect of my routine could change. That bad behaviour isn't really me, its a product of an evil society - I am controlled by 'the Man'.

Until the day that I take the same action, respond with the same attitude and am equally unpleasant - but am on holiday, warm, devoid of burdens and have all the free time I could wish for. Then, suddenly, I have to face facts. Perhaps it really IS me.

So what should I do with this self which is so stubbornly clinging to me, and which has unfortunately turned out not to be perfect?

My feeling is with my Spanish friend. If you don't like it, change it. Ditch the baggage.

M and I chat. He expresses something similar. We institute a conceptual 'bad habits box' into which we each pay 50p if we sink into behaviour that isn't welcome to come with us. The institution of the box is enough to curb the burgeoning bad habits because it forces us to think before acting - to be aware of our selves and consider our words and actions for just long enough to realise they are not going to be worth it. Our selves remain flawed. But the burden feels lighter and the darker sides we discover get less of an airing.

All well and good. And of course precisely what people mean when they talk about finding themselves. So we are nicely stereotypical and prove the cliche.

But the lack of excuses which highlight the problems pose another issue when you get home. If you have time and energy to navel gaze now and can perfect the art of being continually saintly while you are relaxing and contemplating the sunset - what happens to this self when you cart it back home? If it floats, angelic over your shoulder as you drift through customs, how long will it take before it hunches, gloomily over your desk at the office going on about how stressed it is and predicting more rain?

Perhaps the answer lies not in attempting to hold a certain perspective, but in understanding that nothing, including your self, ever actually stays the same.

The purgatory metaphor doesn't quite work. Because the process is never actually linear.

We are collections of impulses and contradictions. Being true to yourself may mean one thing today and something entirely different tomorrow. The reason you don't arrive at your perfect ideal is that even the ideal is constantly changing. Our minds move, morph and alter with every passing experience. Arguably, we are always travelling through the maze that is our own identity, using the circumstances and structures of our lives simply as hangers to give a passing shape to it.

So far from progressing steadily up the hill and through purgatory, the chances are I'll just go round in circles.

But don't let that get you down. 

The very faiths that brought us the purgatory metaphor also brought us the idea of imperfection, unconditional love and redemption. You can't move in a Christian sermon for images of slates wiped clean. It isn't a linear process. We're not linear beings. 

After all, if we can be a miserable wet blanket today, doesn't that mean that it's perfectly plausible that we could be a lively ray of sunshine tomorrow?

If I have just done a passable impression of a nagging fishwife, I could equally possibly be absolutely amazing straight after.

Self improvement isn't a one way process. We are shape shifters. And if there isn't a consistent copy book - I can't blot it.

See you at Heathrow in nine months.

I'll be the one with the pitchfork. And the halo.