The Magic of Everyday Objects
Does it spark… anything?
When I picture the end of the world, which I try not to do too often, my mind always ventures to the same few places.
First it wanders the halls of The Metropolitan Museum of Art, past marble busts and ivory cupids, the ornate jewels and threadbare tapestries of civilizations past. It lingers on the intricate top of a Corinthian column, the feathered wings of a sphinx. Finally, it comes to rest on a painting, marveling at how light springs forth from canvas, a mood captured for half a millennium, still every bit as poignant.
From there, it jumps to the New York Public Library, rattling through the stacks, drinking up titles familiar and obscure. The breadth of the human canon. So many secrets longing to be told.
Ultimately, it’s not the destruction of civilization that I find heartbreaking, so much as the destruction of the evidence of civilization. The work of hands and eyes and hearts and minds. The tangible proof of our existence.
It’s weird, our attachment to things. What is it about solid matter that is so bewitching?
The other day, I accidentally broke a tumbler, a tiny explosion of shards and sounds. It was made of thick glass masquerading as crystal, worth a few dollars at most. But my attachment assigned it another value, one that is harder to quantify.
I’d grown accustomed to the thing — the way it looked on my desk, the weight of it in my hand. Every time I drank from it, for a split second, I had a reunion with moments past. I glimpsed all the apartments that glass lived in, the linoleum countertops and creaky cabinets it graced.
My fondness had nothing to do with the tumbler itself. It was a relic, a sense memory I could summon on demand. But part of me fears that if the glass has left the building, maybe those memories are not far behind. Without that tangible shortcut, will the pictures remain as clear?
I don’t remember when “energy” became one of the most used words in my orbit, but now I can barely remember a time when this wasn’t the case.
“Protect your energy!”
“This place has good energy.”
“The energy in that meeting was weird.”
Some people believe that objects hold energy — the spiritual residue of previous owners, artisans, and environments from which an item hails.
And, of course, any associated memories.
Even Marie Kondo, relentless tosser of things, says to hold something in your hands to see if it “sparks joy” when determining whether to keep it.
For the most part, I agree; there is no sense in storing items with no meaning or purpose, especially if they can find a new life with someone in need. But when it comes to sentimental attachments, I am of the mind that perhaps joy is too stringent a qualifier. There are a lot more nuanced emotions that contribute to our personal narratives. If something sparks — full stop — maybe that is value enough.
The most precious thing in my jewelry box isn’t gold, but my dog’s collar from when she was a puppy, fourteen years ago. A black patent loop so heartbreakingly tiny it could be mistaken for a child’s bracelet.
Every so often, I’ll place it in my palm and stare at it, trying to make sense of what’s become of us, all that has happened between then and now. As though if I view it with just the right slant, this collection of atoms might allow me to transcend the laws of space and time.
I count vintage items among my most beloved possessions. Shopping for antiques feels akin to hunting for stories, little pieces of history in collectible form. I love to imagine the previous lives of pre-owned books, what someone thought as they dog-eared a page. Not everyone is as optimistic. “I hope you cleansed the shit out of that thing,” said a friend, eyeing my antique ring.
On the batshit end of that spectrum is the market for haunted goods. eBay and Etsy are littered with items that claim to be possessed. (This NYTimes piece catalogues “Haunted eBay” in rich and hilarious detail.) A quick search for “haunted doll” produces a slew of listings, with descriptions ranging from “possibly evil” to “benevolent” to “contains angry spirits, highly active.” Prices vary, some as unbelievable as the copy.
In many traditions, amulets are objects thought to have magical or religious powers, offering good luck and protection. Any object can function as an amulet — crystals, coins, jewelry, paper. Some may be blessed, or charged with an intention. No matter their properties, amulets are said to have no power unless the person who carries them believes it is so.
All of this begs the question: Is energy inherent to an object, or do we imbue it with meaning? Can our intentions be absorbed? (And, even if it is purely imagined — the placebo effect in action — does that make it any less potent?)
What do the objects in my home say about me? Something of a magpie. Likes organization. Uses rearranging as a form of procrastination.
One thing you cannot miss is the presence of hands. I collect them. Not in a Hannibal Lecter sort of way, but likenesses of hands, made of porcelain and plaster and iron and brass. They are, after all, what make us human. I love what they symbolize: Creation. Help. Connection.
Last weekend, I visited a friend and her two-month-old daughter, who spent much of the time amazed and delighted by her own tiny hands. Into and out of her mouth they went, clasping around each other, groping at anything within reach.
As babies, before we develop vision or balance, we grasp. It is how we come to know the world, how we make sense of our existence.
Even with the wisdom of years, there is much that will never make sense. We cannot comprehend the passage of time. We cannot reverse it, slow it, control it. And so, our attachments help anchor us in space. This is the magic of matter. To build a bridge between moments. To make tangible what cannot be known.
When I picture the end of the world, which I try not to do too often, my mind always ends up in the same place. After lingering on art and architecture and literature, I arrive at the image of hands. Hands holding other hands, holding tight to what is dear.
This is where I ultimately settle. Bolstered by the hope that the same hands that shape the world are also the ones that can save it.
In the meantime, we hold on. Let us reach. Let us grasp. Let us pray.
Card of the Week
Here is this week’s card for the collective, as well as some thoughts to carry into the days ahead. As most modern readers will tell you, the tarot is not about fortunetelling, nor is it about neat, definitive answers. The cards are simply one path to reflection, a way of better knowing ourselves and others through universal themes. If this reading resonates with you, great! And if not, no worries. Take whatever may be helpful and leave the rest.
Once upon a time, two people fell in love. Their relationship progressed in a blur of passion, caution thrown to the wind. Over time, there were disagreements. Misunderstandings. Cracks in the foundation. Tiny betrayals of trust.
When they parted, everyone was surprised. No one could parse what had happened, including the couple themselves. Their stories didn’t match. They’d grown apart. Their priorities changed, plans shifted. Maybe, they were forced to conclude, they’d never been on the same page to begin with.
This couple is fictional, but the story is true. We all walk around spreading our own narratives, sharing our viewpoints, looking for answers. But the truth is always its own story, dancing somewhere in the middle.
When some people see The Lovers (in this deck, simply “The Lover,” after the Tarot de Marseille) show up in a reading, there is a tendency to take it literally. Depending on their hopes, or the shape of their romantic lives, they might believe it signals new love on the horizon, a reconciliation, or a commitment at hand.
If that applies to you, and this feels like the sign you’ve been searching for, great! I hope that what you seek is just around the corner. But by most measures, the message this week is about studying the way we relate — to each other and the world at large — and coming into alignment.
We are in relationship with everyone we encounter, from our immediate circle to tangential acquaintances to the people we pass on the street. Even in solitude, we are in relationship — with memories, the people who shaped us, the characters who inhabit real estate in our minds.
We are also in relationship with the various parts of ourselves — both conscious and subconscious, our shadow side, the inner romantic who longs to gaze through rose colored glasses.
I can say without hesitation that I have been different in every relationship I’ve had. Depending on the environment, and the unique forces at play, I might’ve been quieter, funnier, softer, angrier, less guarded, more defensive…
Whenever there is a connection between people, no matter how fleeting, something new is created. A dynamic. The result of the unique alchemy between them.
Our relationships are our mirrors as well as our teachers. This week, notice the dynamics at play — between you and the people you interact with, the work you do, the news you hear. Are there any patterns or similarities? Are there differences? How does each of these dynamics make you feel?
The Lovers remind us there is duality in all things, that our lives exist on a continuum. We are constantly striving for balance, but the moment we find it, everything shifts, and we go right back to seeking. Nowhere is this more true than in relationships.
Much like the lovers, we spend a lot of time asking, “What happened? How? Whose fault?” We may not always remember to ask, “What can I learn from this?” But that is often the question that matters most.
Hands...beautiful...
Your voice is so beautiful, thank you.