Recently I was listening to an interview of author Paul Reyes about his book Photojournalism and Foreclosure, which depicts the emotional toll of the economic crisis in his home state of Florida.

During the interview, he tells the radio interviewer a story behind one photograph that showed the interior of a home left practically intact following its being foreclosed on, as if the owners had just stepped out for a short time instead of the forever they never expected.

Reyes learns the homeowner, prior to abandoning his home, had taken the time to carefully remove the name plates from literally hundreds of his son’s Karate trophies. What remain are the statues themselves, in various shapes, all void of any personal reference save for their dusty fingerprints.

When I heard this, I pictured the homeowner cradling the trophies while gently removing their shiny plaques, each inscribed with his son’s name and the name of the event for which he had won, “First Place,” “Second Place,” and so on.

How did he decide among all his other possessions that these were the ones that held the most meaning for him? I also wondered whether the homeowner had much time to decide what it was that he most wanted?

For a brief moment, it occurs to me that on a continuum of tragedy, this father was a degree “luckier” than the victims of other tragedies like the San Bruno fire that occurred just across the bay from my home. He at least had some warning time to make a decision about what it was that was meaningful to him.

What is the essence of our lives?

What captures the profound love, connection, celebration, and transformation of what it means to be who we are? What object or item represents the sum total of our lives or at least our accomplishments and which of these things would we take with us if we had to make that choice quickly?

I am still pondering that question. The obvious items float to the top of course, photo albums and pictures… but what is the essence of my life?  Not an inconceivable thought considering one in five homeowners, according to one statistic I heard on public radio, are in some kind of financial trouble.

In my work as an organizing and productivity consultant, I often challenge my clients to look at the major “buckets” of their lives; to help them understand first and foremost if they are putting their time and their effort towards those activities, projects and tasks that best represent their intentions, their goals and their dreams.

Yet often our time will be spent on the ground level, literally, sifting through the meaningful from the less meaningful objects that have taken up residence in their homes and offices.

For some, the holes of their sieves are large; they can let go, especially when given the information they need to comfortably decide what items no longer hold meaning for them. For others the holes are much smaller because they have assigned meaning and value to more than they have the space for, or in some cases, because they have lost so much already.

I believe that part of the reason some people find it difficult to “get organized” is because it means having to come face to face with the deeper question of “What really and truly matters to me and if I identify it, can I lose it?”  Ten or twenty years ago this used to be a pretty abstract question, now, as they say, not so much.

In the midst of what feels like the worst crisis I have experienced outside of my own personal life in 50 years, answering the question of what is the essence of my life is no longer a compelling philosophical one. It could be the most important question of all.

I am a hotel geek. Always have been ever since I was kid.  My favorite book growing up was Eloise of course, the precocious, forgotten child of jet-setting parents who lived in the penthouse of New York’s famed Plaza Hotel and spoke french to her British Nanny while creating mischief throughout the hotel with her pet dog and pet turtle. I grew up in New York City, which made this book all the more appealing to me, and to this day I still own every book in the Eloise series.

As a child, instead of drawing little daisies or writing my name in curly cues in my book margins, I would sketch my imaginary hotel.  It looked like the Goodyear blimp on wheels with several floors and a set of M.C. Escher-like stairways leading from one floor to the next.  Each room was visible as if the entire outside was nothing more than a plate glass window.

My hotel had everything my nine year-old imagination could dream up.  A game room, bowling alley, swimming pools, a crystal-chandeliered ballroom, library, bedrooms with fireplaces, even a salon.

So whenever I have an opportunity to stay at a hotel, I jump at it. It need not be a 5-star hotel – although they sure do wonders for my hotel fantasies – a nice, clean, comfortable Marriott or Sheraton is just fine.

So this past weekend, when I had the chance to get away to the annual regional conference for the National Association of Professional Organizers, I couldn’t resist even though the hotel was only a little more than an hour away from my home.

There is something about the anonymity of a hotel room that appeals to me, and room service, of course.  I love the feeling of walking into a hotel lobby for the first time knowing from the moment I enter I am treated as a “guest.”  I suppose if I had to travel every day of my life like the character George Clooney plays in “Up In The Air” the novelty might wear off after a while, but luckily my hotel fantasy gets to be played out only occasionally.

While the rest of my colleagues were gathering for schmoozing and appetizers, I was out soaking, alone, in the outdoor hut-tub right next to the “climate controlled” heated pool. During a break I walked around the hotel to sneak a view of the other unoccupied “deluxe” rooms because I like to know what could be available to me.  I looked at every amenity, stopped in to every empty conference room, scanned the supply of junk food at the “snack shop”  and took a thrill as I opened the little bar soap in my over-sized bathroom,  never before to be new again.

When I started to write today, I thought briefly about writing about my insights from the sessions I attended or the connections I made with other professionals I met.  Instead I kept thinking, “wouldn’t it be nice to be back in that hot-tub again, looking at the stars and contemplating a cold beer brought to me by a nice waiter or better yet, dessert served under one of those aluminum trays from room service?  So instead I had Chinese food delivered to our house, took a hot bath in my own bathroom and wondered what ever happened to my drawings of the “Goodyear” Hotel?