I had my carpets cleaned the other day, and it shook up my life like a snow globe. There were reminders of who I was at 2 years old (plastic jack-o’-lantern), at 7 (kids’ books), at 13 (journals — all right, I'm keeping those), in high school (jeans painted with peace signs and shout-outs to Joplin and Hendrix — decades late, but still felt it, man), and who I was some months ago (letters, bank statements, numerous prescription-refill bags). Why all this stuff hanging around, pulling me down?