I'm about to move into my very own apartment here in the city. It's been lovely living with my sister. I am grateful that we had the year together, but now she is off, with chocolate lab Sophie in tow to live upstate. I am moving just a few blocks away to an adorable studio apartment on a tree-lined, cobblestone street. I spent the last week in Minnesota, packing up some of my things. In the kitchen back on the farm, my mom and I chatted late into the night as I sifted through my collections of photographs, miscellaneous silver pieces, old wooden salad bowls and freshly laundered antique linens all across the dining table.
This past year in New York has been wonderful, but I couldn't shake that feeling like I had left something behind or that I was just on an extended visit. I came to the city last September with a few suitcases of clothes, but nothing more. I had put most of my things in storage or had left them for the couple that is renting my house. As I waded through my belongings, I become more aware of the life I had curated over the years. These simple things, the old worn objects, the treasured textiles, the beat up books, they have anchored me. I wonder if my attachment to this stuff is healthy. I decide not to worry about that, so I pack up this "stuff" that gives me so much pleasure and set off for the city.
