I’m back from a weekend in Syracuse, NY where I attended the NYS Ag Society meeting. It was a long weekend of tours and debates and discussions about agriculture. I had a lot of fun, and as usual, met some really interesting people and came home with a ton of ideas for my other business.

Usually, when I go to events like these, I come back with (free) tote bags filled to the brim with paperstuff, so much so that I have to get extra-creative with re-packing my suitcase (another thing I have to work on:overpacking).

This time around, I managed to come home with an empty tote bag and a stack of papers less than an inch thick.

Yay me!

There’s an article in the NY Times that explores the affect hoarding has on the families of hoarders, specifically, their children. I am looking at and thinking about my stuff (as well as the stuff my mother and father place value in) and trying to understand why we take comfort in things. Why do we place value on inanimate objects, these cold, lifeless things? Why do we let them define us?

My mother’s hoarding is about holding on to an idea of material security while my father’s is about holding on to his “golden” years.

I’m still trying to figure out what I’m holding on to.