Why the Difference Between a House and a Home Is Happiness
I’m at the stage of life where everybody around me is finally cleaning out their basements. They’re letting go of everything that doesn’t bring them joy! They’re selling the big old family house and downsizing to a whaler’s house on the coast of Maine or a co-op overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge or one of those teeny, tiny houses that looks a bit like a really cute coffin. Everywhere, they extol the joys of clearing out the crap: how much lighter they feel, how liberated from the tyranny of all that stuff.
I’m here to tell you: I miss my stuff. I used to sit in my living room, my gorgeous living room, and look around at the elegant blue couch and the real Heriz carpet I got at an auction in Pennsylvania for only $400 and the hundreds of signed books and the silver-framed pictures, and think: What would I take? If I had to escape from here, if I wanted to escape next month, tomorrow, today, what would I grab as I ran out the door?