Small Things

Whenever I go home to my Mom's house in Vermont, I inevitably notice something new about the physical makeup of the space. Sometimes it's a bigger cosmetic lift like a paint job or new bathroom tiling, but more often than not, a smaller change catches my eye. A tiny moonstone found on the beach, glowing milky against the kitchen countertop. A baby spider plant in a bell-shaped glass vase. I have come to expect and appreciate these little additions, because although the house's general integrity remains the same, it feels continually fresh and renewed.

This is not to say that my Mother is a hoarder, or that the windowsills and cabinets are lined with tchotchkes and trinkets. Her relationship to the objects she collects is far more complex. Her house is sparsely decorated, so the placement of each new acquisition seems deliberate. You might think the overall result would be a museum-like space, but it actually seems to make the house seem more lived-in, because I don't think she ever fully inhabits the role of "decorator." Rather, in the process of cutting flowers or cooking or cleaning she comes across something that speaks to her and begs to be showcased for its beauty.

In the course of my thinking about homes and objects, I recalled and re-read a short story I read in a literature class in college, Ann Beattie's "Janus." In this story, Beattie uses crystal-clear descriptive third-person prose to describe the protagonist's deep and mysterious relationship to an inanimate object, a bowl bought for her by a lover at a craft fair. So much emotion and longing has been poured into this object that for the character, Andrea, it is infused with its own magic, an inexplicable aura that draws people to it.

I am a firm believer in this elevation of objects to the level of magic and mystery, because it is evidence that there is a whole world of small things out there to be noticed and appreciated, and that maybe these things don't have to be "just things" if they are essential and imbued with importance by those who own them.  I know my mother is the last person anyone would call "materialist," because she has restricted her collection to what resonates with her and delights her. And this act of careful collecting affects how she approaches every aspect of her life, reminding her to slow down and pay closest attention to what matters the most. In a time when there is so much out there to be collected, this could be a good practice for all of us.

To read Ann Beattie's Janus, click here.

For some related insight, click here to read an interview in Kinfolk Magazine with Greg Mckeown, the author of Essentialism: The Disciplined Pursuit of Less.