Bookends
Unpacking small knickknacks and big emotions.
“Home is not where you were born; home is where all your attempts to escape cease.” — Naguib Mahfouz
I was just back in Nashville, where I found myself alone in the fluorescent-filled hallway of a CubeSmart storage facility. I hadn’t anticipated how that moment might feel, caught between the rush of travel plans, airports and car rentals.
I rolled up the door of Unit 6103, the remains of a life in Tennessee slapping me in the face like humidity on a hot summer day. It was the first time I consciously realized that this was my last real tie to the town I grew up in — the place I called home for over 30 years.
When Dan and I moved to LA, we rented out our home in Nashville fully furnished, only loading up our most meaningful, easily packable things for the journey out west. We sold the house 6 months later, and had very little time to organize, sort or ship the last of our belongings while living over 2000 miles away — we had just two days, to be exact. Between downpours and friend drop-ins, we drove over to the storage unit and stuffed it to the brim — mostly forgetting what was hurriedly piled inside.
All of a sudden, there she was. All of these different versions of me, from birth to present moment. I saw her big blue eyes in the portrait my grandmother had painted. I felt her angst in the scrapbook of the moody tween blasting Aaron Carter and Britney Spears. I pictured her curly blonde hair and little fingers playing with the tiny furniture inside her favorite wooden dollhouse. I smiled while remembering each travel pin affixed to her Hard Rock Cafe fanny pack. I cried for her upon discovering the bin of carefully-selected baby clothes she held onto with excitement for the future. I laughed with her when unwrapping the ceramic self portrait, a soccer sculpture donning a purple and yellow jersey.
It felt significant that Hilary, the hurricane-turned-crazy-tropical storm, was hitting my home in Southern California that same weekend. A flood of emotions. The surge of nostalgia. Deep contemplation. Strong winds of change.
In the weeks since, the memories have been creeping around every corner, impossible to ignore. I’m at that age where I’m considered young to old people and old to young people. Many of my friends are raising children, finding stable careers, and I often feel like I’m out here floating, untethered, on wobbly ground. Am I doing this right?
September is a strange intersection of symbolic dates and events for me — 2 official years of living in LA, 8 years since Dan and I got engaged in Cannon Beach, 1 year of this Substack newsletter community (!!!).
Maybe getting older is a kind of realization that no one place may ever feel like home. I can hold closely to parts of my past, and I can let other parts of her go. I’m grateful to find myself here, with a fresh sense of arrival and belonging. Bookending both the beginning and the ending of something.
For my next chapter, I’m writing a book. More on this soon.
Love,
Elise
NOTEWORTHY
—I absolutely devoured the Netflix show Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones. Have you seen it yet?
—The Rules of Flaking on Plans.
—Molly Prentiss is an incredible writer, and her text from a recent piece for a group show shook me to my core.
PLEASURE
Some beautiful vintage books, and a pair of handmade bookends from a favorite shop.
A new record Dan and I have been loving: Holy Waters by Puma Blue.
I’m excited to check out Yiayia, a joyful recipe book from the kitchens of grandmothers across Greece.
CONTEMPLATING
I Have Been A Thousand Different Women. The most stunning poem from Emory Hall’s recent book.
What Dione Davis is Living In. I’m thinking a lot about fall fashion, and gaining some good inspiration from the Habiter newsletter.
I Don’t Need to Be a ‘Good Person.’ Neither Do You. A fascinating article by a clinical psychologist and psychoanalyst.
Photo Credit: ‘Time Passes’ by Jess Allen, oil on canvas.