Things are just things, right?

The superficiality and transcendence of simple objects

I went on a trip and came back missing one of my favorite pairs of earrings. I had had them since 2004. I was only a few months pregnant and we were about to leave Illinois for Upstate New York, when I bought them on an impulse.

It was in a gift shop of the nicest performance complex in town and I paid 40 dollars for them. It was kind of expensive for me at the time, particularly for an impulse purchase. Because of this or the circumstance in itself, I never forgot about it. Along the years I received so many compliments on my classic, green stone earrings that they totally were worth the 40 bucks. I felt very sorry for losing them.

I woke up reflecting on how shallow it sounds to be sorry for losing something material, for instance, a 40-dollar pair of earrings. Over the past few years this subject, the value of things, has surrounded me as never before. Most of the pieces of furniture that were once part of our home are now piled up in a remote storage unit, in Connecticut, while we have been living in different furnished apartments on the other side of the world.

One day we remembered a kitchen aid that would be perfect if we just had brought it with us; on another occasion, we felt nostalgic about a toy that was my son’s favorite, even when not sure if such object is still there, waiting for us, or if we had got ridden of it long ago.

I wonder that the day when we finally reunite with our long seen possessions, they probably will not hold any importance for us anymore. We joke about some shoes, one shoe, in fact. In the rush before our big move, I packed only one of my husband’s formal shoes. It was pathetic to unpack the solitaire shoe knowing that the other one is lost in some box at our storage unit, an ocean away.

* **

I have a recurring memory from the first week after my son was born. My mother-in-law was leaving on a very early flight so it was still dark when she came to my bedroom to say goodbye. The baby was asleep in my bed, so cozy and small that my bed seemed gigantic and I was like an animal, watching over him, taking care of my cub as if this had been my job since the beginning of time. With my mother-in-law going back home, we would be on our own. My husband, our newborn and I, now a family.

It was a simple scene that people would not post on their social media. Nothing to brag about, just a fading image that warms my heart every now and then, when I bring it into mind. The mattress and spring box in the background of the scene are long gone. We sold them before moving. I know I do not need that bed to keep my memory alive.

In a way this makes me feel better about the itinerant, memorabilia-free, kind of family we became. So why do we surround ourselves with things, why do we feel less or more empowered when in connection with belongings?

***

Our many, many books, my husband’s fine vinyl collection and even the little seashells we used to collect, with our son, André, had been reduced to a minimum and, yet, left behind. From then on we decided to buy fewer books and resource to libraries and e-books. Still, in the past years, we broke the promise on occasions and have already a box or two of books to carry along with us to our different addresses.

In a recent conversation, someone said that a child needs a childhood house to safeguard memories and feel rooted. I was defensive. I tend to hate when someone subtly (or not so) implies that with our lifestyle we are preventing our son of something that is healthy and overall good.

Every time I think about our current situation I feel that our decisions, particularly the hard ones, are mostly connected to his well-being. It pains me to think we may be hurting him in the process. Can we give our offspring stability even if in a more abstract way?

Our memories from these years will be not associated with a particular house, where we will be still living. Much less to objects close at reach. I guess we will have to rely on less palpable but more perennial things. And I’m not referring to the many pictures and little videos, all saved on digital platforms. I talk about very particular moments: peculiar games like creating book blurbs for imaginary book titles; poetry contests in restaurants while waiting for food; our train rides, made-up celebrations for New Year’s or even our father’s day randomly chosen in the calendar, since unlike mother’s day, this one is celebrated on different dates around the world.

There are also our “reading marathons” on lazy afternoons, when each of us, along with a good book, tries to contribute to creating a cozy and soft reading spot in a corner of the living room, any living room we happen to have at the time.

***

I love a little desk, an antique piece of furniture made out of an old sewing machine, that belongs to my mother-in-law. Long before she decided to downsize, she told me that the desk would be mine. Now that the time came she will have to save it in some place since probably would cost more to send the piece overseas than to buy a similar one here.

I know the best thing to do is to let it go. It would also make total sense with this moment, as I reflect on permanency, objects and on my so-called nomadic family life. Whereas this little desk became kind of symbolic to me, even though I’m not sure of what.

Recently, months after the trip mentioned in the beginning of this text, I found my green stone earrings in a corner of one of the suitcases. I admit with much embarrassment that I almost cried. In a way, finding them released a chant in my mind: ‘ Everything will be OK’.

Photos: Miguel A. Padriñán (origami); freestock.org (teddy bear); Alexas_fotos(books): CCO License.