The Things We Carry

In early 2021, I wrote a story for WSJ. Magazine about fashion de-signer and philanthropist Diane von Furstenberg. During my interview, she told me that life during the pandemic felt like a “forced pause.” What a fitting way to describe what we’ve been through these past two years.

Like so many others, home became a place where I spent much of my time. As the months progressed, I began reacquainting myself with my home and the things that filled it. Moving into a condominium midway through the pandemic only accentuated this reacquainting as I packed and then unpacked precious boxes full of memories.

Most poignant to unpack were the assorted souvenirs I had collected on my travels. One by one, I unwrapped them from their tissue, feeling like a child again on Christmas morning. Today, these collective keepsakes tell the story of my life, like the smooth, polished cava shells from Wakaya Island in Fiji, the milagros from Oaxaca tied on silky rainbow ribbons, the candies made of glass from the island of Murano, and the painted Pucara bulls from a special tour of Peru.

Others, like an artwork purchased in Cortona, Italy, paint a picture of my coming of age. Though years have passed since that trip, the scenic landscape with its rolling hills colored ochre, sage and melon, never fails to remind me of my adolescence, a moment in time when I was chasing adventure, conquering fear and stepping into my strength as a young, independent woman.

Memory is a powerful thing. Every day, these keepsakes awaken my wanderlust, transporting me both mentally and spiritually to places far away. Closing my eyes, it takes only seconds to travel overseas. In a moment, I can feel the pulse of Paris beneath my feet as I stroll along the Seine. From the vantage of my moving train, I can see fields of pink flamingos taking flight in Southern Africa. Once again, I can climb the stairs of Brunelleschi’s Dome, looking out over the great Renaissance city of Florence, and feel the magic of the ocean while swimming through the Caribbean’s coral gardens.

Last year, on a trip to Blackberry, I found a four-leaf clover on one of my walks. Plucking it from the ground, I pressed its quivering petals between the pages of my notebook.

Recently, on a quiet winter after-noon, I pulled that notebook from the shelf and opened the pages to find it there – dried, warped, still green. A stroke of luck. A forced pause.

Finding it again felt like a gift and reminded me anew that the things we carry in life, however small, are joyful vessels in this wild, wondrous world we are lucky to call home.