I like old things.
Which is weird because I don’t like wrinkled paper. I always flip to a new clean sheet. I can not tolerate pens with the ends chewed or a pencil sharpened down to a nub. I like fresh pencils and if a pen has a missing or mangled cap, I throw it out. Those are just pens and paper. Disposable.
Pretty much everything else, I like old. Old doors, creaky cabinets, aged barns, rusted keys, and hotel silver. It’s weighted.
The idea that others have come before me is comforting. I’m not as scared knowing that women have done this before. They have raised children, gotten older, wanted more, loved and died. Old things remind me of that. They help me feel solid, in my place, and somehow peaceful.
There is an energy in aged things. Maybe it’s the spirit of the people that used them before me, but there is a gripping feeling that doesn’t happen with a new, off the shelf, thing.
A few of my things are getting old. Furniture, jewelry, jars.
Someday, I may provide weight to another person’s life. Well, my things will because I will be gone.
There are things that travel through my day to day with me, that will be around long after I am gone. They may bring back memories for my children and even their children. Stories may become attached to my things, even hold pieces of my spirit.
I’ll bet I don’t even know the items that all the people that follow me will hold most dear.
Some of my things may travel on to people that don’t know me. They may feel me in the item, sense my energy, just as I have felt others in my old things.
I like that, the passage of a life lived, the spirit in the things we leave behind.
My thoughts from the laundry room. Sleep.