The things we hold dearest
The Interna(list) ✏️ Objects of Affection
The Interna(list)—a mini-series exploring the internal intricacies of our inner-being through the practice of writing lists.
I harbour within my soul the desire for both clean, light, minimalist spaces, and chaotic, nostalgic, comforting objects. My thoughts and feelings constantly battle over the practical verses sentimental way to create (and maintain) a home.
Presently, I’ve resigned to the simple, pragmatic way of life; having everything hidden away in baby-locked cupboards, minimal/low maintenance furnishings, and prioritising decluttering and wiping down tiny fingermarks on the walls.
But deep inside me is the desire to collect, to covet, to have precious little keepsakes that hold dreams and memories. And so, the few darling objects I do have, I’ve stowed away in keep-safe draws and boxes and the back of cupboards, in hopes of a day when I can safely bring them into the light.
I’ve listed five of these objects of affection. Every time I caress these items, I tangibly experience my love for them. Each individual piece is imbued with a story that I would like to share.
Is there anything more comforting than holding a favourite mug and letting its warmth transfer into your palms? I didn’t understand the sentimentality of a favoured mug until I purchased two off a friend. Her husband is a potter. He collects wild clay, purifies it, delicately throws it on his wheel in his home-studio, then fires it in his hand-built wood fire kiln, and sells his gorgeous creations to friends, locals, high-end galleries and prestigious homeware studios. I chose two unique white-glazed mugs; a chai cup with no handles so you have to caress it with both hands, and one with panelled sides that remind me of nougat. They live safely in a high shelf, but I use them everyday, just to soak up their beauty.
We all have special things (either gifted, inherited, or stolen) from loved ones that remind us of them and bring us joy. My grandma is one of the most beautiful people I know, and if my husband would let us, I’d move back in with her and be with her every day, and she would live forever, and we’d make pikelets and pavlova, and I’d fight with my children over licking the batter. But as it stands, I’ve started collecting vintage silver tablespoons instead, to help me feel close to her. She always uses vintage silver tablespoons to mix Christmas puddings, stir melting chocolate, and measure out streams of golden syrup. I now use them to mix minestrone soup, spoon out pikelet batter, and often eat with them despite their large size. I hand-wash them and gently place them beside the stove (between the salt and olive oil) so I can constantly admire them and remind myself of my darling granny.
I will always remember my grandfather as a gentle soul and a hoarder of books. They piled beside his bed, and along the walls, and filled entire cabinets and cupboards. He was always in bed reading some book (usually about heaven), and avoiding visitors (while hoping to see the angelic-kind). One afternoon, when he was outside on his tractor, my granny and mother tackled the main stash. Sorting and boxing them up for safe-keeping in “storage” (which I’m sure meant they went to the opp-shop). As I watched each of his precious books travel from shelve, to hand, to box, I noticed a pocket-sized, red-leather-bound cover. I snatched it from the box and ran my fingers over the dusty fragile pages. It was a very old print of Pride and Prejudice. I had watched the BBC series with Colin Firth a million times. So began my journey of deciphering the old English prose, and rereading it over and over for the next 17 years.
When I was young(er) and sad because I couldn’t have a baby, my husband and I would walk the local beaches. I’d stare out at the waves, watching the wading pregnant women and mothers with their babes, tear up, then stare at the sand at my feet. That’s when I found my first shell. Not, like, ever (there’s thousands covering the shore). But a specific type of shell that made me smile. I’d never found one like it in the wild. It was small and beautifully curved. We went on many sandy walks that year, and I only ever found one. The rarity made it even more special. I ended up finding another one when I fell pregnant, and another when I had my baby. I now have six in total (shells, not babies). All slightly different colours and sizes. I keep them in my jewellery box. They still make me smile.
I’ve always had an affinity for small wooden boxes. It’s a joy to find one hidden away in some old home. Will it be filled with jewellery, coins, love letters, or mysteriously empty? I hope to one day have them scattered throughout the house in odd places and buried within the garden for the boys to dig up. But for now I have one, and it’s home to my beeswax candles. Every time I open the lid, the smell of honey wafts up to my nose. It sits on top of my fridge, but I hope to one day nestle it amongst fresh linen, doilies, and other boxes filled with jewellery, coins, love letter, or mysterious empty.
I believe we all have a few of these objects of affection, whether they are nicknacks from our childhood, treasures from our travels, or items that represent our values and desires.
If you have a list you’d like to share, please do so. I’m listening.
Thank you for being here,
Chloe