Hot Water Bottle

I’m going to be moving, soon. Somehow, I’m sad, yet I’m trying to pick myself up. I have to simplify—my living situation, my lifestyle, my life. It’s not easy, but I have a sense that once I get going, it will be a very freeing experience.

My current financial situation requires it, and though I’m sad, somewhere deep inside, I think I’ll emerge from this like the lotus out of the mud.

I’ll be moving from my large, bright condo to a small studio—basically a kitchen with a bed in it, attached to a barn. And I’m excited to trim away the excess, and be happy with what I have. The pending journey takes me back to a non-descript water bottle I enjoyed, in Kenya:

On a trip not too long ago, I stayed at a remote camp deep in the Mara. The camp’s entrance was adorned with bones and half of a freshly eaten zebra. Bats circled the dinner table, and the water smelled. We were told to keep our tents zipped all night, and not to emerge until daylight.

I was to sleep alone.

Perhaps because of the far-away-ness of it all, or honestly, I don’t know what, that first night at the camp, I was slightly homesick. I smiled politely through the dinner conversations, single amid the couples, and returned to my tent to sleep.

When I climbed beneath the scratchy, military-issue gray wool blanket, there was a hot-water bottle in my bed, under the covers. This simple gesture of hospitality nearly broke my heart. There, while I was biding my time through dinner, sitting idly beneath the circling bats, one of the Masai tribesman had come into my tent to place the bottle in my bed, to warm it… Their version of turn-down service, with the requisite chocolate. The hot water bottle was much sweeter, though, and I found myself holding it until I fell asleep.

The idea of Luxury is relative. For the Masai, it’s a hot-water-filled rubber sack, placed between sheets.

I look forward to growing into my simplicity.