Swift

On Monday a few dozen of us gathered in the parking lot behind the Montclair Library and watched hundreds of chimney swifts soar about until, one by one or two by two or two by three, they fell into the massive chimney of the Buzz Aldrin Middle School, where they would spend the night.

That's all I have to tell you this week, as I am helping Ilya pack the shop in my spare time, and instead of feeling greater freedom with each subsequent layer we unearth, it feels like that layer is settling on top of me and suffocating me.

We are culling and paring, letting go of as much as we can, which is hard when every object triggers a name, a face, bicycle, a story, when every object is heavier the older it is, its value greater than the dollars you paid for it because you've also paid to store it all these years.

Many thanks to all who wrote me last week. If you missed my Winter Garden letter, read it here.

Divinity School • a letter every Sunday at sunset • if you’re always looking, after some time you’ll have seen