One of the things that made me happiest about my Brooklyn garden was its provenance: some plants I inherited, some I bought, while others were given to me by friends and family. And though I’m sad I couldn’t take anything from that garden to my new house, I’ve already sowed the seeds of randomness in Piermont, with an apple tree from a good friend and tomato seedlings from our generous carpenter. One day, I’m hoping I’ll get back to Brooklyn to take a cutting from “my” old Rose of Sharon.
It strikes me that there’s something similar going on with almost all of the material things that I care about — my books and notebooks (the ones that survived), especially — which accumulate as much meaning in the aggregate as they have in the particular.
Where do your favorite things come from?