the art of a packing list

thoughts on having a curated list, and knowing yourself

Joan Didion and Patti Smith, both renowned writers, artists, visionaries, and, of course, known for their iconic packing lists. For long I have fixated on their packing lists, from the objects they contain, to the consistency they allude to.

A curated, overused list — a suggestion of knowing one’s self.

patti smiths list to the left, and joan didion's to the right

One day, I aspire to know myself well enough that a simple packing list is filled with only things I love and know will be true to myself, regardless of who I am at any given time. A list so precise, so instinctive, I don’t have to give it a second thought — with each item a small testament to my rituals, my comforts.

Aside from clothing, Patti Smith’s list includes plenty of books, journals, and tea to keep her occupied while on the road. Didion famously included a bottle of bourbon and cigarette objects that speak to her particular kind of solitude.

Not alike, I have packed tea and a carton of applesauce before. Maybe that counts! Tea for early mornings and late-night calls, and applesauce for when I need a snack break. Both are akin to having a glass of bourbon and a cigarette break, I’m sure. They’re small, familiar indulgences that anchor me wherever I go.

Perhaps I like the idea of curating a packing list because I like the idea of knowing yourself so well that you know who you are going to be today, tomorrow, and the day after that. Knowing yourself in Greece, Italy, Thailand, the next town over. A self that is unwavering, constant, familiar.

To know yourself so well, in any city, your packing remains unnerved. To throw things into a bag without hesitation because you already know—down to the worn edges of a book, the exact weight of a favorite sweater—what you will need.

But, my custom: I long to be different in each place. Perhaps in Rome, I despised skirts, but in Italy, that’s all I want. In one city, I am a minimalist. In another, I am adorned—rings on every finger, and a scarf tied just so. Unveiling a theatrical version of myself.

Maybe my problem lies in the fact that I put too much emphasis on clothes—on how my outfit influences my mood, personality, expression, and thoughts. I have skirt days and pants weeks. Periods of time when I am indifferent to my body, slipping into the easiest thing. Other days when I am deeply aware of it, when dressing feels like an act of creation. And so my packing lists are inconsistent and ever-changing. What feels essential one day feels excessive the next.

Maybe it’s less about curation and more about instinct.

With weekends of practice behind us, my partner and I recently rushed to pack an overnight bag. Like clockwork, we got our bags and started throwing things in them. Well, I hurriedly tossed everything into my bag, cramming clothes and essentials into whatever space there was.

Meanwhile, my partner patiently folded each item, smoothing out wrinkles, and carefully considering where everything should go—an artful precision that made my chaos look childish.

Perhaps these lists were created with years of unexpected trips in mind. Packing is a habit they’ve built after years of throwing things into a suitcase. Maybe that’s what I’ve been missing—a routine so ingrained that packing becomes second nature, a reflex rather than a deliberation. But what happens when there’s no time to curate, only instinct?

I recently participated in a thought experiment: If you had ten minutes to pack before an apocalypse, or before you had to disappear entirely, what would you take?

My mind goes first to my laptop, passport, then to the collection of journals filled with photo strips and written memories, the pieces of jewelry I wear daily, and, of course, whatever shoes are most beloved to me at the time (right now, it’s my Tabis). Hardly anything on my list is practical. Nothing that would help me survive, just things that make me feel like myself.

In those moments, when there’s no room for pretense or overthinking, we’re left with the barest essence of ourselves. It’s a strange kind of clarity. The things we reach for, without hesitation, reveal more than we might expect: not survival tools, not practical items, but fragments of who we are in that moment.

It’s less about perfection and more about evolution. Joan Didion and Patti Smith’s packing lists, each so carefully curated, are a glimpse into the consistency they sought in their own lives. For them, the lists weren’t just about survival or practicality—they were about an enduring sense of self, about knowing exactly what they needed to feel grounded.

Is it possible to have that kind of certainty when we’re always changing when we’re constantly evolving with every place, every day?

Perhaps the challenge isn’t to reach a point where we can pack without hesitation but to embrace the fluidity that comes with being unsure. One day, it’s applesauce and tea; the next, it’s books and rings. The ritual of packing, like life, is an ongoing experiment. And maybe that's the beauty of it.