LET IT GO, GIRL

"I can't find my spoon," I wailed.

Today we were moving the last of our things out of the apartment, standing amidst the half-filled boxes and cleaning supplies where I'd been searching for my missing spoon.

"Why does that upset you so much?" Chip asked, clearly confused that someone who has been gleefully throwing out belongings would be so upset that one left on its own.

But, this wasn't just any old spoon. This spoon was a miniature, two-inch work of art, sculpted of pewter with an intricate little face carved in the handle. I loved it, treasured it, used it every day to sprinkle salt on my food -- whether the food needed salt or not, because that spoon was awesome.

Through tears I lamented, "I've kept so few things, and now I've lost one of them."

All those belongings that I've pitched this past year were items I willingly -- but sometimes reluctantly -- released when I knew they were standing between me and the water. But this one? It met all the marine requirements: it was tiny; it wouldn't rust; it was durable, guaranteed to survive the rough and tumble life on a sailboat. And the most important requirement of all: I loved it. This was one of the precious few items I had chosen to keep.

And in that little spoon I had been precariously balancing some part of every one of my discarded possessions, all my things that were too fragile, too breakable, too bulky, or somehow uniquely inappropriate for life onboard.

Maybe that was just too much for a little spoon to bear.