I’m looking for a “special object.” What makes something stand out as special? My eye floats across my surfaces. I live in a high-stuff environment, much to the dismay of my inner monk. My objects have objects. There are small delicate family treasures, like crystal, china and stone. Then there are gifts from dear ones or things I’ve collected traveling. Things might be interesting, beautiful, occasionally valuable, inspiring, and maybe even tender. But what object has meaning?
Should it be something I purchased or something that was gifted or handed down? Are items from the past more meaningful or should it be something very now? There are other variables: breakage; repair; connection; guilt; luxury; resentment.
Maybe it’s something I made myself in a moment of inspiration or creative therapy. Quickly my brain starts it’s muttering: that should have been finished better; see where the glaze pulled away? I needed to allow more time between processes. The comments remind me I should be more careful, more attentive. I should try it again, learn from my mistakes, become a better craftsman and then I’d have the object free from doubt.
But the next time I’m creating I become distracted in a different direction being brand new yet again. Again—always—I invent as the clay is drying in my hands. Quick. Yes, it would have been relatively easy to follow the plan and make the dinner predictable and fine, the file complete, the display transforming. How much would it take to melt away the tiny flaws and show mastery? Would that take a different me?
I don’t have the soul of a perfectionist although sometimes have the soul—or perhaps the soul-lessness—of a critic. Sometimes I can be that mind that looks for imperfection behind every trace—the cat who seeks reward for bringing a lifeless bird through the kitchen door for Mistress. Critic wants to protect, but instead she prevents.
“A precious object,” I remind myself. My eye lights on a small stuffed hedgehog. Some years ago it pulled me into the zoo gift shop, where I quickly surveyed the entire stock. I sorted keenly and bought the very best three, anxious to spread these treasures to my little family.
When I bring my eyes to the little fleck of fabric woodsiness, I smile inside. There’s no weight of regret, criticism, disappointment, death or imperfection. There’s a bit of silliness and anachronism, perhaps, but its cuteness has withstood the test.
But is this THE object? I think of Morgan and Rhubarb, my worn, over-loved stuffed animals from childhood. They came to my adult home a dozen years ago, tucked away in a family bureau. I rarely take them out of their plastic bag.
Instead, quite convinced, I pick a stone bear fetish from New Mexico. Perhaps I’m cheating—this is an object of obvious power. Or perhaps that’s exactly what I’m looking for. I share the coolness, smoothness, healing and power of the bear. By holding it, by using it, I derive its power. Sitting on the shelf it has none. It becomes a special object in my hands. Maybe its special-ness is not in my hands alone, but in my hands the tiny stone bear has power.