Once, I learned about the perceived importance of things…the stuff we buy to put more stuff into. The notion of these things seemed convoluted as we sat blithely discussing in front of my Macbook, a good record playing and a comfy couch beneath our seats. I felt I’d reached a higher level of meaning in my life, a new equilibrium within the world around me.

Now, I find my computer in bits under a pile of sheet rock and wood. The house I grew up in has been obliterated to rubble by a raging torrent of wind. Our refrigerator stands twisted and mangled, my all-natural condiments and farm-fresh eggs splattered alongside it with organic salad embarrassingly strewn. Everything is gone, and it’s surreal because even my stuff that wasn’t stuff in the physical sense—digital files, design ideas, writing—that’s all gone too.

I’m filled with despair, but then the overwhelming urge to reinvent, to buy a mobile home and travel with the insurance money. Secretly, I’ve always wanted to be rid of this stuff.