Sorting through things can be really fraught or beautiful or both at the same time. I remember something my dad tried to reinforce throughout my life, “love people and use things, not the other way around.” It’s sound advice, but sometimes the people are gone and only the love and the things remain. What does a person do then? As a jewelry-maker, I’ve also thought about things like birthstones or how different gemstones have different meanings. Humans create meaning out of all kinds of things–cuneiform, hieroglyphs, letters, numbers, heirlooms, gifts, animals, emojis, even memes. I can’t speak to all of humanity, but I can speak to my experience.
I have a few things that belonged to my parents that are now mine and they are imbued with deep, personal meaning to me. They connect me to them in powerful ways. I have a turquoise and purple hair pick that belonged to my mom. My mom had naturally curly hair and I so desperately wanted curls as a young girl. I would have my mom, sister, aunties put my hair up in pin curls, rag curls, curlers. I got horrible permanents. Those soft natural waves that my mom and oldest brother had were exquisite. I longed for those. Anyone with curls knows that after a shower, it’s important to gently pick the wet hair so it can dry without snarls but also without brushing out the curls. I’m 46 and have enough gray and natural wave that together I’m starting to get those natural curls I always wanted. I pick my hair out after a shower just like my mom did and I get to use her hair pick. It’s a simple item made of heavy plastic. But it’s been around since I was at least 12 and I still get to use it just like she did and I think of her every morning.
In a like manner, I have a two-cup, Pyrex glass measuring cup that has a slight chip at the spout that belonged to my dad. He made marinades and sauces and all kinds of delicious things to pour over meats and things he would make for his kids. Dad was an unofficial gourmet chef who was particularly gifted at things like rare venison tenderloin with a special garlic sauce, prime rib, halibut cooked perfectly. He enjoyed good food. He enjoyed cooking. But what he really loved was when his kids came back home and he could prepare a feast. Eschewing anything in the pantry or deep freeze as pedestrian or second-tier quality, he would easily go out and buy the freshest, most choice ingredients to feed his kids when they came home. Some of this was learned from his parents who always shared their garden bounty and some of this was learned at the feet of our mom’s aunts and uncles who spelled hospitality with a capital “H.” Cooking special meals was one of his love languages and he was good at it. All four of us kids learned mastery of cooking and grilling and baking in some measure or another. And we all love to feed people to our very best ability. Every time I pull out that measuring cup, I am awash in the love my daddy had for his babies. This home is peppered with the same kinds of things from Bryan, Mary, Gil, Dot, and I can say, without hesitation, Sara, too–bottle openers, the cheese grater, garden tools, the signet ring I wear on my left middle finger that has an “L” in script that belonged to Gil, artwork by and photos of Mary, a sunshine yellow pot made by Sara. This is when things are more than things, they are reminders of the people and the love.
We are constantly making meaning. I know every time I go for a hike at Bennington or around Mill Creek or drive in the Palouse, I feel that. I see birds of prey, hawks and kites and osprey, and immediately think of Bryan. He and I would point them out on road trips and get a thrill seeing them sail over fields or edges of roads. Every one I see reminds me of him. Do I think Bryan’s soul or spirit is suddenly in the body of a hawk? No. I can’t prove it’s not, but I don’t think things work like that. What I do know is that I imagine Bryan soaring whether it’s down a mountain with skis on, in a sailboat in quick wind, or on a bicycle coasting really fast downhill. He used his body to feel the wind, the snow, the elements in all their forms. He thrilled at the speed and elegance of such movement, much like the grace and form of a hawk.
Symbols have power and meaning when they change our thinking or feeling. I don’t think crystals and gemstones heal us. I don’t think animals are reincarnations of our loved ones who have passed. I don’t think things have inherent powers. What I think does, however, is our minds and our thinking. Our thinking has power because it changes us. Like words by themselves don’t tell a story until they are connected together in the form of reading or listening, the same is true for these symbols around us.
Feryl Files 
This is a beautiful post and makes me think of the things I have that were my mother’s. There’s a nightie that she had that I wear (one of these days it’s just going to disintegrate altogether). Her handwritten recipe notebook. Her ashes.
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Thanks for sharing with me, too, Dana. xoxo
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