I just had the hard drive on my laptop replaced. After the Geeks on Call guy was finished, he gave me the old hard drive. It’s no bigger than a thin pack of playing cards. When I saw how small it is, I pointed to it and said, "My whole life is right in there."

Okay, so it’s an exaggeration. But in the footprint of an object no bigger than the end piece of a loaf of bread, you could find every article I’ve written, email I’ve sent, material for workshops I’ve given, thoughts made concrete, in the course of doing business and living my life for the last few years.

I had this realization that the evidence that I have lived and breathed and worked and loved has gotten larger, while the physical space that it takes up has gotten smaller. It’s an odd feeling. I wonder if it’s better to have old shoe boxes stuffed with letters from family and friends and old boyfriends, hidden away in the mustiness of a crawl space. I’m nostalgic and I’m also practical. I’ll file away my old hard drive, in a shiny, static-repelling bag, someplace between extra staples and a box of 3.5 inch diskettes.