Summary: When you're standing at the baggage claim in a big city airport and your suitcase pops open as it's coming down the chute–spraying your dirty laundry, private journal pages and sundries nobody but you ever needs to see all around the carousel—the last thing you want to do is pretend it doesn't belong to you. Because things will only get worse if you do. Your bag will spew more of its contents as if to spite you, and embarrass you in worse ways than your mama ever could until you've turned four shades of purple. Naturally, I know from whence I speak since it happened to me. The night before my return flight from Toronto I jam-packed my wheelie bag with all of the free books and literary magazines I'd snagged at my first writer's conference. To me, it was a pretty big deal since it was an international affair, and everyone seemed so attentive and interested in what the published panelists had to say. Over the course of that oh so literate weekend, I pored over the writing advice of the textperts and dog eared poignant passages from soon-to-be remaindered books written by sexy youngish authors with cool glasses, devil-may-care dispositions, and just enough world-weariness to hold my rapt attention. In my hotel room, I fantasized about the type of writer I was going to be when I got back home and stared down the intimidating blank screen of my computer. No more playing it safe, I vowed. Promising myself I'd be no less than brilliant, highly sought after and privy to the innermost thoughts of my creative muse, I was going to write my way out of the uninspired rut I'd been intermittently languishing in since high school. Then all hell–in the form of my exploding Walmart luggage special–broke loose. Much to the disbelief of my fellow travelers, and myself, I wound up chasing my crap around the baggage claim carousel trying to discreetly stuff my drawers and journal pages back into my busted disappointment of a suitcase. Thoroughly crestfallen and cursing the mother lode of literary freebies that caused my cheap-o luggage to burst at the seams , I hung my head and avoided all possible eye contact as I pressed, shoved and smashed my belongings back into confinement. Suffice it to say that by the time I got back home, I couldn't have cared less about writing, reading, or appearing half as brilliant as the up-and-coming authors I'd brought home with me. In fact, I privately chided them for my airport debacle as I trashed the publications and the luggage, and shut the lid on my writerly aspirations yet again. Fast forward from my public shame of 2004 to Valentine's Day, 2010 and a conversation I'm having with my girlfriend Sharon. In the midst of our chat, she tells me she's disappointed again this year because her partner didn't do anything special for her that day or for her birthday, she adds. And not on their anniversary, either. I felt for her and said as much before we hung up. Little did I know how just much I was feeling for her. Shortly after our conversation, my mood took a nosedive for no good reason, and I wanted little more than to fling myself across the bed and burst into a crying fit. It didn't take long to figure out I was experiencing some of my friend's disappointment in a way that felt as real to me as if her sadness was my own. Granted, Sharon and I are close, and have been for more than twenty years. Add to that the fact that recent years of energy work have rendered me way more receptive to what's going on around me, especially when I'm paying attention, and I knew something was up: baggage. What happened next surprised both Sharon and me. I called her back and told her how sad I got after we'd hung up earlier that day, and urged her to deal with her feelings honestly. Otherwise, I said, they'd only be hanging out in her space–circling like unclaimed baggage on a carousel!–unless she finally faced them. I also told her if she didn't want to process her feelings for her own sake,
