So What About That Desk?

I have a desk in my basement. So what? That doesn’t sound like it would be very interesting. My guess is that I’m not the only person that has a desk in her basement. I am rather curious to realize though, that I’ve had this desk in my basement for over ten years and I’ve never sat at it once. Why is that I wonder? It’s a perfectly functional desk. It’s one of those with a storage caddy above the desk surface, complete with its own lighting. I wonder if that bright florescent lighting was built in to hide its oppressiveness. This desk is positively massive! It stands six feet tall, with that atrocious storage caddy. I feel diminished next to it. Truly this thing isn’t just in the basement, it owns the basement. So now…why? So why do I have this desk lurking in my basement? And the bigger issue that I’m dancing around, is that I hate this desk. That’s pretty interesting, because I didn’t even realize until just now that I hated it. But I do! So why? Why am I keeping this desk? What is so important about this desk that it reigns supreme in my basement? Why can’t I just let it go?

I think possession tell stories. They are physical representations of places we’ve been, things we’ve done, and often who we were and who we were hoping to become. I believe a person’s possessions are a reflection of the person. There’s a problem with reflections though, they can be so easily distorted, like in a fun house mirror. Traveling through a fun house, the reflections I see may belong to me, but they certainly aren’t an accurate depiction of who I really am.

I moved the desk and the rest of my possessions into my house ten years ago due to my divorce. My soon to-be-ex-husband took a few pieces of furniture we shared and then related to me that the rest of our possessions were “my problem.” Some of those things had belonged to him – like the desk. Honestly, I can’t say the desk is my ex-husband’s possession, because it hasn’t been in his possession in over ten years. If the story is just that I don’t like the desk, I think I would have just had the movers take the thing into the alley to be picked up on garbage day. Instead, I felt obligated to move the desk into my house to take over my basement. This desk I hate, it does now belong to me.  So it is a reflection of me then, not of my ex-husband. What is so important about this desk? What is it reflecting about me?

I don’t think that any divorce is pleasant, and mine was certainly no exception. The end of my marriage began one night when I went to the desk (yes the same desk now lurking in my basement) to work on the computer. I tapped the mouse to wake it up. Usually, it reset to the profile screen, where my husband and I had private passwords to separate our individual files. However, this time the computer opened to my husband’s open email.

What greeted me were several pictures of a girl in her twenties. She was dressed in her underwear and a button down blouse. Her pale hands with their dark nails were suggestively tugging at the buttons presenting glimpses of her nubile décolletage. Her mouth was open, her tongue playing on her sultry come-hither lips. I knew her. My husband had met her at work, she was hoping to be a professional singer and my husband had played me a song from her website. The list of emails between them exceeded what was visible on the open email view screen. I felt cold. I couldn’t move. My vision blurred as tears fell onto the keyboard. My husband was having an affair. After screaming viciously at him, he went to spend the night…elsewhere. I regretted my behavior and the terrible things I said. I wanted him to come back. We had just had a baby and we had just bought a house. I thought I tried to be understanding but I was served divorce papers instead.

I hate that desk but the oppression I feel from it didn’t come from its hulking size; that desk told a story from my divorce. The desk was a physical representation of the past. It was a like a fading picture of the very moment when I bought my first house with my handsome husband and my beautiful baby. The desk was a reflection of the time when I imagined myself as a loving wife and doting mother. And then all that was ripped in half when the desk revealed a beautiful girl I knew, in her underwear and button down shirt. I tried to bury the story in the basement, but my subconscious kept whispering, “It’s your problem.”

I made the divorce entirely my problem…just like that massive desk. I blamed myself for the divorce. I was convinced that I had over reacted - it was just some suggestive pictures after all. I should not have lost control. I should not have screamed at my husband. My thoughts continued the spiral of blame. Maybe if I had been more outgoing my husband would not have needed to seek out the company of a pretty young girl. Maybe if I was a better singer myself… maybe if I had been a better lover…maybe if I had been more attentive to my husband’s needs I could have saved my marriage. The more and more “maybes” I came up with the more and more distorted the story the desk told became.

The truth is, I had forgotten the emails and the pictures completely. My mind had danced around that truth until just now, because all I could see of myself in that desk was a shrew who had given her husband no other option but to divorce her. I don’t want to make myself out to be entirely innocent (or worse still – a victim), however, looking at my reflection cast from this desk, I really must acknowledge now that I’m looking at one of those fun house mirrors. Yes, that is me in that story. Yes there is perhaps some truth in all of my “maybes.” But to say the divorce was entirely “my problem” is a huge distortion of reality.

I wanted to know why I kept the desk these ten years. I think I wanted to hold on to an image of myself as a loving wife; but because I no longer had a husband, I kept the desk instead – as a perverse reminder of why I was not the loving wife I so wanted to be. It wasn’t the desk I couldn’t let go of, it was that lost image of myself. I think that’s why so many possessions are so hard to discard; we don’t want to lose who we once were. Unfortunately, in my case, this perverse reminder of who I wanted to be is holding me back from who I might become.

So…what about that desk in my basement? Are you in the market for a six foot desk with lighting and a storage caddy?

Adventures in Accidental Talismans: The Curious Case of Officer D

In 2007 I met my friend Officer D when I briefly accepted the position of Field Training Officer for my police department. D and I were promoted together that year. Several years later I transferred to my current district where Officer D was also assigned; and we resumed our friendship. I didn’t know much about Officer D then, except that he’s one of those people who just makes everyone around them calm and comfortable. He’s just got a comforting personality. I have never seen him lose his temper. I can’t really imagine anyone not liking Officer D. And I certainly couldn’t picture him getting into any kind of trouble at work. However, he recently got into some very serious trouble. So serious in fact, that he could have very well lost his job.

Officer D knows that I am fascinated with possessions and that my passion is not policing, but rather clutter. As we were partnered up during long summer hours patrolling our city, he generously allowed me to chatter on endlessly about it. I believe that our possessions have power. Sometimes that power is empowering, and propels people towards their future and their desires. But sometimes that power latches onto us like a chain that traps us in the past – I call those dangerous possessions “Accidental Talismans.” As I went on about my clutter theories, Officer D told me his curious tale and he has given me permission to share it. The most curious thing about Officer D? He really has few possessions, and we were both interested to realize that sometimes the lack of possessions can be an Accidental Talisman all by itself.

Officer D, has been living alone in his house since 2008. But being the comforting soul that he is, he knows many people. Officer D will always come through for his friends, whatever the need. In 2016 a young man, whose father was a friend of Officer D, was accepted into our municipality’s police department. The thing is, our department has a residency requirement, which obviously the father couldn’t meet. Officer D immediately agreed that the young man could move in with him. Officer D had a spare bedroom complete with a bed…albeit a set of bunkbeds he had purchased for his son, but mattresses were fairly new and the room was clean.

The young man didn’t care, he just need a place to sleep with the right zip code, so he moved in with one duffle bag of clothes and some recruit uniforms. Officer D didn’t see the young man much. He was busy at the academy and out and about with his young friends at every spare opportunity - the way young men often do. Things were going well for the young man in the academy, and Officer D lived his life mostly as he always had. Although, things went to hell and a handbasket when the fire department called.

For reasons I will never understand, lots of young men think that it’s much cooler to be a fireman rather than a police officer. So a lot of young men apply for the Fire Department in our fair city and are placed on a very long waiting list. So it’s common for these same young men to also apply for our Police Department. These young men enter the police academy and wait out the fire department waiting list with the police until they are finally called to the fire department instead. Such was the case of Officer D’s roommate. He was even luckier. He hadn’t even finished the police academy when he was called to the Fire academy. So the young man resigned from the police department. He still needed the residency though. The fire department is very particular about that - very, very particular.

They sent an inspector to check on the young man’s residency. In accordance with their standard operating procedures, they come by the home at a pre-arranged time and verify that the candidate is actually living where they say they are living. They usually make themselves comfortable in the kitchen or living room and briefly ask questions about educational transcripts and former drug use while they subtly judge housekeeping skills. After visiting Officer D and his roommate, the poor young man was subsequently fired.  And not only did they end both a fire department and police department career for this young man, the fire department sent a letter to the police department urging them to fire Officer D! Because the fire department’s inspector had determined that neither the young roommate nor Officer D lived in that house.

Officer D has been a police officer for over 20 years. Not only that, he grew up in our city, in the same neighborhood he lives in now only a block and a half from his parents and conveniently located only 15 minutes from our district police station where we work. Of course he lived in that house! Everyone in our district knew that! Why would that inspector from the fire department say such a thing? Well, maybe it might have something to do with the fact that one of the only pieces of furniture in Officer D’s house were the bunkbeds that young recruit crashed on.

In 2008, Officer D had a bitter disagreement with his wife. Officer D’s father owned the house next door to his and had been using it as a rental property. However, when the last tenants had decided to move, the house had remained empty. That house was larger than Officer D’s classic raised ranch, so the wife wanted that house. Officer D was very proud of his little raised ranch, and he didn’t much like the idea of just taking over his father’s property. But his wife wanted that bigger house. She wanted to be wealthy and apparently, calm and comforting Officer D just wasn’t rich enough or good enough. Officer D’s wife moved into the larger house next door to her in-laws and when she moved she took everything. She took every piece of furniture and every single picture was removed from the walls. There was one thing she left behind though, besides the nails from the pictures – and that was Officer D.

When I got to see Officer D’s house this year, his refrigerator was still decorated with alphabet magnets and a few drawings from his five year old son (who is now 14).

There were some similar drawings in his son’s bedroom (the bedroom where the young roommate had dumped his one duffle bag of clothes), along with a few forgotten stuffed animals and a beautiful sculpture hanging from the ceiling light, made by tiny hands in a children’s art class.

By 2016 the only thing that Officer D had purchased was a set of bunkbeds for his son. His wife though had made the edict, “he will never sleep there. That was stupid.” There was a TV and a beat up frat-house style couch that one of Officer D’s friends and made him take so he would have something to sit on if he or the roommate watched the TV. The walls remained empty though, decorated with only nails. There were no new pictures of Officer D’s son anywhere in the house. It was frozen in time – that house. It was frozen; set forever in 2008, the scene of the crime – the day his wife of 20 years left him and took his son.

His house told this heart wrenching story when Officer D allowed me to see it for myself. I ached for Officer D. I wondered where his wife and son were now and how often he got to see his son. I was in for a bit of a surprise there. You see, I had no idea that she had only taken their son a block and a half away to the property next door to his parents. He saw his son all the time. He could in fact see him every day if he wanted to. And yet there were no new pictures, no new art work, just the same nails left on empty walls.

Officer D’s house really is pretty clean. He doesn’t actually have a lot of clutter just two significant areas. Officer D showed me his little den area, in it there is a couch where he sleeps and a desk over flowing with clutter. He said that it got so cluttered that he moved his bills and things to the kitchen table, which is now also overflowing with paper.

“I need to file it,” said Officer D.

“Uh-huh,” I commented.

Where Officer D’s clutter lives is significant. His wife apparently walked out on him because he wasn’t wealthy enough for her. Oddly, now, Officer D owns four houses. His parents passed away in recent years and he inherited his father’s house, his father’s vacation house in Michigan, and the rental property where his wife lives with his son. Officer D owns all of that in addition to his little raised ranch and all of the properties are completely paid for. And yet Officer D chooses to bury the paperwork acknowledging his wealth. Officer D’s desk is an Accidental Talisman. It says, “I do not deserve to be wealthy.” 

The table is also interesting. I asked Officer D where he eats and he answered, “Standing over the sink.” Over the sink is a fine thing for a rushed young man to do every now and again, but a cluttered table ensures that no one would be able to join Officer D for dinner at his home, ever, even if they wanted to. Officer’s D’s new desk, the table, is also an Accidental Talisman. It says, “I will not share my life, with anyone, ever again.”

It became clear to me, seconds after entering Officer D’s house that he is unwilling to trust people. He knows that he is dependable though. He is very sure that he can be counted on; it is just simply a part of who he is. It is one of the character traits that makes him such an excellent officer. Officer D had always wanted to be the police. It was the only thing he ever wanted to do. Even though my primary passion lies elsewhere, I do agree with Officer D that what we have chosen to do is not just a job, it becomes what you are. We are the police. We have heard people’s horrible nightmares. We have seen people through crises (that sometimes have nothing to do with a criminal act). We have taken injured stray dogs to emergency veterinary clinics. We have held people in our arms covered in their blood as we waited for emergency medical services to arrive. We have cleared apartments for lonely elders when they are scared by the creaking of their floors. And we have risked our own lives, struggling to handcuff violent criminals so that justice may be served and the community protected.  Officer D and I both have been sworn at, spit on, punched, and much, much worse. But whatever you may think of us, doesn’t matter - no matter what, we will still come for you. Whatever your need, criminal or not. If you call us, we will come. Because when the chips are down, you can count on the police. We always show up, for better or for worse. You know that we will be there. We pride ourselves on that determination – that reliability to show up. Not only are we there for our citizens, we are there for each other, for all of our brothers and sisters in blue. Civilian citizens refer to the police devotion to one another as “The Blue Line.” It is meant to be a derogatory term but I for one am exceptionally grateful for that line.

Like Officer D, 2008 was a significant year for me as well. I got very sick. I had vertigo so badly that I couldn’t walk. My eyes drifted in separate directions, rendering me legally blind. Obviously I was unable to work any job, let alone serve and protect. For almost two years no one could figure out what was wrong with me. Any other occupation would have let me go, but the police department kept me and saw me through the final diagnosis of thyroid cancer. I am forever grateful to my department. They were there for me when no one else was. “The Blue Line” fed me and my child when I was unable to give them anything in return. But most officers don’t require a gigantic tumor in their necks, cutting off the blood flow to their brains to understand what “The Blue Line” is really about. It’s a given. We will always come, for better or for worse, and we will take care of our own.

Officer D may not trust people, but he does trust that Blue Line. The only deviation from the 2008 timeline in his house is the line of blue police uniforms decorating his hallways.

Officer D has at least three full closets in which to hang his clothes, and yet he chooses to adorn his hallways with his uniforms. He has given himself a physical blue line. Those police uniforms remind him of one thing he can absolutely count on. But that line of uniforms in the hallway is another Accidental Talisman, because that line cannot hide the fact that the whole house is a time machine, set for 2008 – the day his wife left him and took his son. It doesn’t matter that they live down the street, they might as well be a million miles away.

The one question I get asked most about Accidental Talismans is how one can transform them. Basically, people are asking me “How can I keep them?” In my opinion, you can’t keep them. You have to let them go. Getting rid of them is the only way to transform all that negative energy that’s been dumped into them. You cannot transform a message like “I do not deserve to be wealthy,” you can only abandon it. If you are constantly surrounding yourself with the message, “I will not share my life, with anyone, ever again,” there will never be room for something else (or someone else) to take its place until you are willing to let go.

In most cases, I recommend donating them to charity. A person who finds your Accidental Talisman in a second hand store will most likely be thrilled to have it. One of my favorite sweaters came from a second hand store. I love it, but the person who got rid of it, had their reasons for not ever wanting to wear it again. No matter how negative it was for her, my joy of it is what fills it now. And I think, that joy filters back to her a little.

In some cases it’s okay to sell some Accidental Talismans, but that takes time - time where the Accidental Talisman will continue to drain you. 

In some extreme cases, I recommend returning these nasty magical buggers to the elements. I mean elements in the archaic and mystical sense which are regarded in the Western spiritual traditions as air, fire, water and earth. Burning things is my personal favorite and flushing things down the toilet (hello water element) is a close second. Biodegradable items can also be released to the wind and of course burying things can be an excellent option. Burying things closes doors in our western minds, because to bury something is to put it in the grave once and for all.

I told Officer D about his Accidental Talismans. I relayed the negative messages of his desk, his table and his representation of our Blue Line. But then I told him that his entire raised ranch is one big (albeit empty) Accidental Talisman. I told Officer D that his wife is still living in his house. It isn’t his, it belongs to her, in 2008.

It might be interesting to note that Officer D’s house really does belong to his wife. It’s in a trust in her name only. Legally speaking, the raised ranch is all that does belong to her. Everything else she calls her own was paid for in full by Officer D. He even still pays her credit card bills. If I was an extremist…I’d recommend that that little raised ranch be burned to the ground. Officer D is too good a police officer and too good a person to be trapped in 2008.

Epilogue

There is no need to worry about Officer D’s failed fireman roommate. He is now a police officer in another municipality and crashing at the apartment of his current girlfriend. He has yet to come back for his duffle bag of clothes still in Officer D’s house.

As for Officer D, I know our municipality well and I’m pretty sure there was a secret investigation of Officer D by Internal Affairs where they discovered that Officer D has absolutely no secrets.

Incidentally, he decided to retire this year. He wanted to buy a motor home and tour the country with his son and spend some more time at his property in Michigan.

He recently sent me a text with a picture of his table, which he had cleared. I pretty sure that might be an invitation to join him for dinner...how sweet.

Why Do We Keep Broken Things?

I give the name of Accidental Talismans to possessions that lurk in the home and drag down the inhabitants. A talisman is supposed to be a magical object imbued with intention and purpose that propels the magician towards a desired future. Things I call Accidental Talismans don’t take any kind of magical skill to make, everyone has junk that for whatever reason, we just don’t want to deal with. But those boxes in the garage with forgotten contents, ugly curios, and old clothes take on a life of their own. Unfortunately their purpose is not to propel towards the future, but to trap the owner in the past. I always think I’ve successfully gotten rid of all my Accidental Talismans but I discovered I had more to learn.

I’m fortunate to have an occupation that offers me a considerable amount of vacation time. So after my son’s Spring Break had finished, I still had quite a bit of time left in my vacation. It being Spring and all, I was inspired to do some deep cleaning of my house. I was in my own bedroom, armed with a Swifter and clearing out the cobwebs in the ceiling corners when an expressly prominent Accidental Talisman growled at me. My bookshelf was particularly disgruntled.

I am an avid reader. My new rule is that if I can find the book at the library, then I don’t bring it permanently into my home. I would not have enough room in any house to house all of the books I read. That said, some of the topics I research are not books stocked in the Chicago Public Library. At one point, I decided that I wanted to make space in my own bedroom for my favorite books. I also wanted the top shelf just under the window to be a place for special objects. So years ago, I went to the nearest Target and put together a small bookshelf.

Now I’m not against convenience, obviously, but that bookshelf kit I bought wasn’t exactly built to last. Target gives their furniture kits very small warranties for good reason. Several years ago, that book shelf broke. The corner pin pulled out and had cracked the top particle board. However, instead of replacing it…I…um….well, I used some leopard print duct tape to hold it together.

That leopard print duct tape was simply awful.

With taxes filed, bills paid, and vacation pre-paid and over, I thought to myself, I could easily replace that bookshelf with a new kit from Target. But the truth was, I could have done that when it had broken in the first place. Why had I kept it?

I took the query of broken things to social media. Only four of my personal friends were brave enough to respond to the question. Three said that they kept broken things in order to repair them. Although two of those three brave souls admitted to me that they never did get repaired, and sat in variously locations around their homes, much like my growling bookshelf. When I bombarded the third person with questions like “How long does it usually take you to repair things?” and “Where do you keep the broken things while they are waiting to be repaired?” She didn’t respond…I have a sneaking suspicion that like the other two, those broken things she has have been sitting in her space broken…possibly for years.

So if we are really not repairing these things, the question still remains – Why do we keep broken things?

My most favorite books, and objects that were quite literally sacred to me were perched precariously on a sad little bookshelf being held together with duct tape. My room looked pretty fresh after I had swiped away the cobwebs, but it just made that bookshelf even more…loud.

“Look at me!” It screamed.

That was startling, even though I’m well aware Accidental Talismans take on a very disconcerting sentient quality. The bookshelf was growling and screaming at me; talk about creepy! But…if my own friends and all of Facebook, Twitter and Tumblr couldn’t tell me why people keep broken things…maybe that very loud bookshelf would.

I believe that all of our things are reflections of ourselves. That’s why I’m so adamant about getting rid of Accidental Talismans. If possessions are reflections of ourselves then I want that reflection to be accurate and affirming, not some freakishly skewed funhouse version of a reflection. I had to know what my broken bookshelf was reflecting about me. The truth was more complex than I imagined. That bookshelf had a lot to say.

Perception of Value

“You want me to be valuable!” it shrieked.

I was shocked. I paid good money for that bookshelf and it fell apart! Well, I paid money for it. But I did not pay a lot of money for it. I did after all buy it from Target. Target, though, is a lovely, helpful establishment that offers a lot of different types of merchandise in one convenient location.

“Target,” countered the bookshelf, “Is not exclusively a furniture store.”

I really couldn’t argue with that. Target only warranties its merchandise for a limited time because their bookshelf kits are not meant to be generational family heirlooms. Target would probably argue, and rightly so, that their bookshelf performed up to its expected warranty. And I wasn’t exactly careful with the thing (the bookshelf told me that it would come back to that in a moment), so Target certainly had nothing to do with the breakage.

But value isn’t necessarily monetary. Not only did I spend my money on that bookshelf, by the Gods! I had spent my exceptionally valuable time building the thing! Yes, indeed I had spent my limited time putting together a bookshelf. I made the decision to buy a bookshelf kit from Target because when I decided I wanted that bookshelf, I wanted it NOW. I did not want to “waste” (my oh so valuable time) visiting multiple furniture stores where they build very lasting, stable bookshelves and have them delivered by careful, professional furniture movers. That takes weeks, and sometimes months – I didn’t have time for that! At Target, I had my bookshelf at the now.


“So tell me why that green fairy dress of yours is this closet, and not the costume closet in your basement,” said the bookshelf.

2011

Yes, for the record, I have a costume closet. But the green fairy dress was (is), as the bookshelf had stated, not in it. That's because I wear it so often, it just is too much trouble to retrieve it from the basement every time I time I want to wear it. My broken bookshelf reminded me that my when I bought it, my then husband was openly horrified at the money I had spent on that dress. I believe that it was about $130.00 dollars in 2005. Which seemed a lot of money for one dress he thought I wasn’t going to wear that often.

Well, it’s now 2017, and the dress outlasted the husband. As I said, I wear that dress all the time. It has a train that been drug through Arizona desert dirt, and Illinois summer mud; and yet it still looks as good as the day I bought it. Google me and you will probably find several pictures of me floating about the internet wearing that green dress. Because I have been photographed by literally hundreds of random strangers at faires and festivals I attend for my own amusement. I’ve had that dress for 12 years, so for each year I’ve had it, it cost only $10.83, for the year. If I calculated the cost by each wear, it would probably be pennies. And it still looks great. I’ll be wearing it for years to come.

2013

The green fairy dress was value, the bookshelf was not. I just wanted to believe that it was value because I spent a couple hours struggling to put it together myself. But the truth about that bookshelf is that I didn’t want value, no I wanted instant gratification; and whether I want to believe it or not, those two concepts are simply not the same thing.

 

 

 

Sentimental Reasons 

“You’re so sentimental,” the bookshelf said. “And I’m done with it.”

I was confused at first by this. I remembered that I had kept a broken toy that had belonged to my son. We had an Au Pair from Thailand who had given him this cool windup toy. It wasn’t very expensive, but I wanted to fix it so badly because it reminded me of her. It really was beyond my capabilities to fix, but I kept it for a long while hoping that I could, for the sentimental value of the thing.

I speak a lot about sentiment in conjunction with Accidental Talismans. People often recognize that a thing has sentiment (sentimental value) but it’s harder to articulate what that sentiment actually is. Just because something has sentimental value, doesn’t necessarily mean that the sentiment is positive. According to Merriam-Webster dictionary, a definition of “sentiment,” is “an attitude, thought, or judgment prompted by feeling (emphasis is mine).”

Surely this bookshelf from Target didn’t have sentimental value! Or did it?

The bookshelf then proceeded to remind me of how the pin was pulled, that cracked the shelf, which led to the duct tape. My son was in my room, he’s always in my room, and actually, I feel pretty lucky that he still wants to hang out with me. I don’t remember the precise circumstances, but I do remember that my son was trying to be helpful when he grabbed hold of the side of the bookshelf and pulled it in order to move it slightly. I yelled at him to stop, because, of course, the bookshelf broke. And my son cried, because it had broken and then I yelled at him some more, because he had broken it. And I felt awful. Because apparently, I had cared more about that bookshelf from Target, than I had about him.

When my son was a little smaller (as he was when the bookshelf broke, as a matter of fact) when he had a scrape, I would bandage it with a leopard print bandage. Mommy’s kiss would start the healing process and the next day, I’d find the bandage somewhere in the house, or on some stuffed animal who had had an accident too. Children’s physical scrapes heal pretty quickly. Bookshelves however, do not eventually grow new particle board. It wasn’t the pulled pin I was trying to heal when I taped up the bookshelf with that leopard print duct tape, it was that I had yelled at my son. I know very well that yelling at a child causes far more scarring than the worst physical scrape.

I had kept the bookshelf for many sentimental reasons. It was to remind me of the day I thought my books were more important than my son, and of the bad attitude I had. I passed a judgement on myself for my error. The bookshelf was a reflection of that.

“I don’t have time, for that!” 

That eyesore of a bookshelf had been growling and grumbling in my bedroom for a very long time…years…I think (I don’t know and more to the point – I don’t want to know). As I stood there, having this surreal conversation with the sentient Accidental Talisman armed with my swifter, I tried to argue that I finally had the time to clean like this due to my vacation and my son’s school schedule.

I had left the bookshelf alone because I had never had the time to attend to it before! I worked! So much! On weekends! At night! (I think I was still on the midnight shift when the bookshelf had originally broken – but I’m not sure) I still had to cook dinner and make sure the dishes were washed and the laundry was put away! I had to actually sleep and eat from time to time too! When? When! Did I have time to go to Target again and time to put together a new bookshelf! I didn’t! I didn’t!

The bookshelf sighed. “No one ever has time,” it said. “Time is an immensity. How arrogant you are to assume that you can ever have it. Time is so much bigger, older, and wiser than you will ever be. You cannot have Time – you can only offer it an invitation.”

I had never wanted to make the time to replace the bookshelf. I just couldn’t be bothered.

There had been a fourth friend who had responded do my Social Media query, “Why do we keep broken things?”

He had responded: Because we are broken.

“So you’re saying I’m a miser, a bad mother and that I’m lazy,” I said to the bookshelf with resign.

“No,” answered the bookshelf. “I don’t think that. I’m just a bookshelf. But you do. I am only a reflection of you.”

“I don’t think I like this reflection,” I said.

“My reality is,” said the bookshelf, “I died a long time ago, but you could not let me go.”

My sad little bookshelf, even though it had not had a long life, had in fact served its purpose. I was pushing it further than it could go. It had reached its limitations. I had to acknowledge my own limitations - it was beyond my capabilities to properly fix it. Well, to be fully honest, this bookshelf was broken, and could not be fixed.

So I returned the swifter to its proper place. I got into the car and drove to Target and I bought a bookshelf (this one has metal supports and thus, a longer warranty – I wasn’t exactly looking for generational quality). Then, I offered Time an invitation, and the new bookshelf was built. So then Time and I went to the old bookshelf and began to remove the books. When the last book was out, the bookshelf simply collapsed even as I was still holding the last volume in my hand.

I think it was grateful.

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Resources 

“Sentiment.” Merriam-Webster, 2017. Web. 24 April 2017. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/sentiment

Resources for Accidental Talismans

Alfred North Whitehead said, “Everything of importance has been said before by somebody who did not discover it.”  Accidental Talismans - the idea that clutter may in fact be detrimental to your physical and mental well-being, is not an entirely new idea.  Many others have written and attested on the subject.

Here is a selection of my favorite works related to Accidental Talismans:

 

Books 

Andrews, Ted. Psychic Protection. Jackson, TN: Dragonhawk Publishing, 1998. Print.

Hale, Gill. The Practical Encyclopedia of Feng Shui. London: Anness Publishing Limited, 2001. Print.

Kingston, Karen. Clear Your Clutter with Feng Shui. New York: Broadway Books, 1999. Print.

---. Creating Sacred Space with Feng Shui. New York: Broadway Books, 1997. Print.

Kondo, Marie. The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up. Trans. Cathy Hirano. New York: Ten Speed Press, 2014. Print.

(You can read more on my thoughts about Ms. Kondo HERE)

Morgenstern, Julie. SHED Your Stuff, Change Your Life. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2009. Print.

Palmer, Brooks. Clutter Busting: Letting Go of What’s Holding You Back. Novato: New World Library, 2009. Print.

---. Clutter Busting Your Life: Clearing Physical and Emotional Clutter to Reconnect with Yourself and Others. Novato: New World Library, 2012. Print.

Rubin, Gretchen. The Happiness Project. New York: HarperCollins Publishers, 2009. Print.

---. Happier at Home. New York: Crown Archetype, 2012. Print.

 

Additional Blog Posts by Amy Alice Christensen

“Accidental Talismans of the Verbal Kind.” Blogger. Blogger, 27 September 2016. Web. http://achristensenmusic.blogspot.com/2016/09/accidental-talismans-of-verbal-kind.html

“April Owen Society: Odds Fobs and Gear Knobs: Accidental Talismans.” Blogger. Blogger, 30 April 2014. Web.  http://achristensenmusic.blogspot.com/2014/04/april-owen-society-odds-fobs-and-gear.html

“Book Thoughts: The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up.” Blogger. Blogger, 1 May 2016. Web. http://achristensenmusic.blogspot.com/2016/05/book-thoughts-life-changing-magic-of.html

“But They're Just Pants! (Musing on Accidental Talismans).” Blogger. Blogger, 5 May 2015. Web. http://achristensenmusic.blogspot.com/2015/05/but-theyre-just-pants-musing-on.html

“Costco Magic.” Blogger. Blogger, 18 June 2013. Web. http://achristensenmusic.blogspot.com/2013/06/costco-magic.html

“It’s NOT The Thought That Counts.” Blogger. Blogger, 21 December 2016. Web. http://achristensenmusic.blogspot.com/2016/12/its-not-thought-that-counts.html

"Why Do We Keep Broken Things?"  Blogger.  Blogger, 09 May 2017.  Web.  http://achristensenmusic.blogspot.com/2017/05/why-do-we-keep-broken-things.html

 

Other Web Pages 

“Psychometry – Token Object Reading.” Psychic Library. Psychic Library, 2016. Web. 19 July 2016. http://psychiclibrary.com/beyondBooks/psychometry/

 

Videos and Podcasts 

Gnostic Wisdom Network. “[Talk Gnosis] Accidental Talismans.” Online Video Clip. YouTube. YouTube, 28 May 2014. Web. 20 July 20, 2016.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFsyjecc0qA

“Accidental Talismans with Amy Christensen and Rufus Opus on the LHP Consortium Speaker Controversy.” Magick Radio Chicago. 13 March 2016. Radio and Podcast. http://magickradiochicago.podbean.com/e/accidental-talismans-with-amy-christensen-and-rufus-opus-on-the-lhp-consortium-speaker-controversy/

The Pleasure Path

Two weeks before New Year’s Eve I was in the grocery store and I made sure to grab a package of black eyed peas while they were in stock. My son and I have an established tradition at our house. I make Mice and Beans, we drink champagne, we state one resolution and then we stay up until midnight to greet the brand new year. The champagne is sparkling grape juice. The Mice and Beans is actually Hoppin’ John a dish made with black eyed peas because my mother and Martha Stewart say that they bring you luck for the New Year. My son doesn’t remember why we call it Mice and Beans, but when he was little we read about Skippy John, a Siamese cat that had an adventure to Mexico in his magic closet. He met some Chihuahuas who asked him if he liked rice and beans. Skippy John responded “Si! I love Mice and Beans!” Because he’s a cat…not a Chihuahua. Anyway, I held those black eyed peas in my hand for several minutes remembering Skippy John Jones. I won’t ever forget that silly cat even though my son doesn’t remember that story anymore.

I was laughing outright as I tossed those peas into my cart. Then it hit me – by the Gods I was laughing! With reckless abandon in a grocery store filled with people who might be judging me! What the heck was going on? I was actually happy.

Sadly, that’s really not my default setting. I really like to simmer in my sadness and delve into my despondency. I live to mourn my life.

Singing along to the Christmas Carols in that grocery store I started to ponder if maybe there was a different route to consider. I went home and I began working on a project to reflect on 2016. I wanted to know precisely what made me unhappy. Although, I knew that if I really wanted to make a change – that is if I wanted to keep this mysterious mirthful mood – what might be even more important was to consider what made me happy.

Research in behavioral science has suggested that there seems to be an evolutionary factor for why it is easier to remember the worst things that happen, rather than the good things. It stands to reason that if something can kill you, you might want the memory of that permanently etched on the back of your eyelids. But if I’ve learned anything over the years, it’s how easily mired I can become with all that negativity. Really, most of the things I carry with me looming like a dark cloud over my head, while uncomfortable, are not really environmental threats to my survival. Yes, I wanted to learn and grow from the mistakes I made in 2016, but really the burning question I had was, “What makes me happy?” I couldn’t necessarily find that by reliving my failures.

Then, I was sifting through blogs on Tumblr and came across a post by TheCrownedCrow. It was a divination challenge to create a personal map for 2017 in order to help you realize your goals. Although I knew I’d probably be the only geomancer in the challenge, I was hooked. Particularly when I read the seeking question for day 2: The New Year also brings a moment of reflection. What is something I learned in the previous year that will help me grow in this one? That is the beauty of geomancy. There’s very little about it that’s cryptic. Geomancy says, “Look right here for your answer.” I already had the memory project well underway. All I had to do was roll my geomancy dice, and cast the house chart. A repeat of the first symbol would tell me exactly what memory would be the most helpful to focus on! Part of me thought that it would lead to a particularly painful lesson I endured in 2016, if I could master that it would be the key to lasting happiness in 2017! But my dice had a different tale to tell.

The first figure was Via or Way, I often interpret this as path or road. I was very pleased to see this figure. This was going to be an interesting reading. I cast the chart, and Via reappeared in none other than the House of Children. The Fifth Astrological House can represent actual growing children, but it also uses the concept of children as a metaphor. Children are strongly motivated by pleasure, so in a geomantic reading, the symbol in the fifth house also represents things that refer to pleasure. So, the key to my growth in 2017? It was to look at what makes me happy. I must look at everything that brought me a semblance of joy in 2016 and instead of collecting negativity to loom over me, I needed to draw my positive experiences with me into 2017.

I’m so obsessed with my work with Accidental Talismans and getting rid of things, I had never really taken the time to consider what things are important to keep. The key to my growth was waiting for me in those treasures of memory rolling around in the back of mind. I just needed to give them a place of prominence. I needed them to tell me their stories.

January 2016 

In January I was looking for something my son and I could do and I found a Dog Sledding event called Musher Mania. It was fun and spontaneous. We got out of the house and participated in an event that fed our connection. Then, I did some pretty scrapbook pages because I gave myself the time to do this small hobby that brings me joy.

The lesson that I took from this was the celebration of the spontaneous. There actually wasn’t a lick of snow, we mushed in the mud which probably made it that much more hilarious. The event planners worked with the weather they were given and it was still a blast. I learned that you don’t need perfection to have a perfect day. Just live in the moment.

Capturing the moment was also significant. The scrapbook pages I made were some of my favorites of the year. I love scrapbooking. I love it. It makes me happy. If I am to follow a new path, scrapbooking then is important. It is a mile marker on the road to happiness.

February 2016 

Every year in association with Valentine’s Day my son and I visit Medieval Times. It is a tradition that we both look forward to every year. I love the show and I love the tradition. I worry so much about being repetitive and boring but tradition is a touchstone so worth keeping.

March 2016 

I am a serious homebody, vacations are often not relaxing for me. In 2016 I took a huge risk, for the first time I traveled to another country with my child! We went to Grand Cayman. My son took me snorkeling and in Devil’s Grotto, we looked down over the edge of the reef and saw two huge sharks enjoying the waters. I have absolutely no photographic evidence of the event. My son and I were so stunned by these magnificent creatures that we just observed them in frozen awe.

I learned that I was capable of risk! I was also pretty proud that I paid for that risk in cold hard cash! No banks were broken in the making of this moment. Definitely my financial planning is a skill to be proud of!

April 2016 

I really loved doing the Council Oak Fundraiser as Ruby Ruse. I loved telling fortunes and found that I was very good at it. I often give people the option to consider that I might just be reading their body language and reactions more than I am looking into their future; because if what I say is helpful, then it doesn’t really matter where the information comes from.

But how I knew a former accountant was changing careers to be a librarian?…that’s a bit difficult to explain away with body language. You know what? Being a creepy fortune teller in pink sparkles really makes me deliriously happy.

May 2016 

In May I finally got the opportunity to work with visual art in a three dimensional way. Joan Forest Mage teamed me up to create an Art Adventure for the Life Force Arts Center with Errol McLendon. I created the second event, a Creative Drama program called Come Play With Me.

The participants really got into it and I was delighted to dust off my skills in improvisational performance. I learned that I am indeed a creative individual. More than anything else, it is my creativity that I feel defines me. And, when I am being creative, I am happy.

June 2016 

I really love fitness. That is a fact. I was intensely involved in my training and doing research on fitness for a summer presentation. I was perhaps in the best shape of my life in June of 2016 and that really made me happy. Scientific research suggests that a fit body releases endorphins in the brain that perpetuates happiness.

July 2016 

Very few people know when my birthday is. I don’t like to share the information partly because it is on the holiday weekend and my birthday gets swept away under the national fervor. But the deeper (and darker) reason is my belief that my birth was an accident and that my parents really didn’t want me. It’s a little difficult to celebrate your birthday if you wonder whether you really were meant to be born.

However, hopped up on all those fitness endorphins I was hell bound and determined to have a happy birthday. As I was polling my friends for trip suggestions, one clever soul offered up the City Museum in St. Louis and I was hooked from the mention of seven-story slide. The City Museum was completely awesome yet I loved pretty much everything about that trip!

The most important thing I learned was that I didn’t always have to worry about what everyone else may or may not be thinking. I spent my childhood and a great deal of my adult life trying to do what I thought my parents wanted me to do. I did this hoping to prove to them that I was worth their love, even though I was an accident. I carried that mentality into my most of my relationships. I chose activities based on what I thought somebody else might want. This isn’t the fortune telling that makes me happy, this is just crazy making!

This time, in July of 2016, I went somewhere I wanted to go without worrying about what someone else wanted. And it not only turned out okay – it was better than okay – it was awesome!

August 2016 

For reasons I may write about later (or perhaps never) I was in an exceptionally dark place in August. It was quite possibly the lowest I have ever been yet. My child brings me joy, but my happiness is not his responsibility. He knew I was depressed, but there was nothing he could have done and I sure wasn’t going to disclose to him just how bad I really felt.

It was my cat Bing who pulled me out of the dark. When I picked her up from the groomer she was so darn happy to see me! And she was just so cute with her hair all shaved off, rolling on her back and telling me to rub her belly. She loves getting her hair cut. She just would rather be naked – she’s a weird cat.

She made me laugh and then she licked away my tears with that sandpaper tongue. She quietly listened to all of my darkness and took in all of it without so much as flick of her tail.

“Silly Amy Alice,” she said to me. “I love you. See, you’re worthy of love. Now rub this naked belly!”

Bing, a half blind naked cat, taught me that there is unconditional love in this world, I just have to be willing to accept it in whatever package it may come in.

September 2016 

September was about just surviving; it was just about putting one foot in front of the other. As luck would have it, the Summer of 2016 was the summer Pokemon Go became all the rage. As the season was coming to a close I put one foot in front of the other while capturing Pokemons with my son. We would walk for hours and talk about all sorts of things. I don’t think that I will ever forget that. What a wonderful game. Sometimes happiness comes in tiny packages – in this case, anime animals on an IPhone.

October 2016 

I adore Halloween. It was hard for me to choose just one highlight; it was a toss-up between the Trick-or-Treat in Oak Park or Fright Fest at Six Flags – both were Halloween themed fun. I love making Halloween Costumes. I just love it! It’s not lost on me that this is another example of a hobby. It was also the aspect of using a skill. A part of the joy in those events was the oohs and ahhs my son and I received over our one-of-a-kind costumes. I also love to see the obvious surge of pride on my son’s face when he informs his fans, “This costume is handmade.” I love that my son gives me a picture and trusts that I will bring it to life. My sewing skill alone can bring me happiness, but to share that joy with my son makes me that much more deliriously joyful!

November 2016 

This makes me feel a little sheepish to admit…but the best thing in November was discovering how much I like the television show Supernatural. And not just the show, the character of Sam Winchester.

I finally felt like a normal human being because I had a legitimate crush! Albeit it was on a fictional character who I would consider far too young for me in real life, but I hadn’t had a sweet and innocent crush since William Shatner ruled 1970’s syndication as Captain Kirk, so I’ll just take it

This little crush made me research the actor Jared Padalecki; and I learned that he too suffered from depression. He had a crisis in the early seasons of the show, probably because he was enjoying so much success and a part of himself was screaming that there was no way that he could possibly deserve it. I was able to make that assumption because I feel that way so much of the time. I love too that he used his own creation of Sam Winchester to see himself through. He reminded himself that Sam always kept fighting, and that became his mantra. He founded a whole awareness campaign with that as the slogan.

Jared Padalecki is a hero to me because he risked stigma and rejection to help others who share the battle with depression. In him, I found someone to model. Isn’t that what the arts are supposed to do? Give you something to model so that you can find and become the very best version of yourself? Art shows us the possibilities. And when it comes to possibilities you want the outlandish, the bigger the better! If we imagine ourselves fighting the very Darkness Herself then perhaps it is then easier to find a flashlight when the circuit in the kitchen blows.

Watching Supernatural gave me the ability to see possibilities as I shrieked in gleeful terror watching the impossible adventures of the Winchester brothers. It made me laugh when I needed a break from my sadness. It gave me adventure when I wanted to get away from the monotony of my job. It made me realize that I had emotions…even the flirty one I wasn’t sure I had. It gave me hope.

It would seem that frivolity has its wisdom too.

December 2016 

While sweet Sam Winchester was leading me down a new path of hope, the day everything suddenly changed was when I responded to Errol McLendon’s request to share my thoughts about death and what happens after that event. I wrote to him about my son’s birth, and how it nearly killed me. I had such a strong, spiritual, and life changing experience. I found my Goddess and I found my purpose - I found that when I died.

I sent him a long message detailing my experience and then I went to his show. It was so very profound that the audience stayed for more than an hour afterwards to talk, and to be with one another. After that, it was as if the dark cloud that I had carrying over my head burst. I was free. I was happy again. I felt more myself than I had for longer than I could remember. Errol’s show stayed with me and I thought about it that whole week. Then, I decided to write about the experience again. This time I posted it on my blog (The post is called, The Day I Died). It was one of the most well received posts I had ever written; probably because it was the very best article I had ever written. It was the best, because it was so true.

I learn so much about myself when I write. In my blog post about my death, it was during the process of writing that I discovered something so important: when my body was dead and there was nothing left of me except my own instinct and my own feelings, what I wanted – what I needed more than anything – was to be a mother. I realized that it was really the first time I had expressed a deep desire that came not from someone else’s expectations of me, but truly from my own desire – my own instinct and feelings. Despite the mistakes I had made as a mother and despite the fact that I had been unable to control all the circumstances, ultimately being a mother had brought me the greatest joy I had ever known. It made me wonder what I could accomplish if I trusted my desire more often. I wondered what I could accomplish if I listened to my own instinct and my feelings instead of giving that power away to someone else.

I wondered this because I wrote. The dark cloud burst when I told my story.

There were things from 2015 that I stuffed into that dark cloud and I carried it all through 2016. My geomancy reading suggests that there is a new path for 2017 through the House of Children. It is the Path of Pleasure.  I must make time for hobbies. I must celebrate my traditions. I must take pride in the financial freedom I worked so hard to earn. I must acknowledge my talents. I must be creative at every opportunity. I must pump my iron. I must exercise my independence. I must love my pets (particularly by rubbing my naked cat’s belly). I must play, just play. I must utilize my skills. I must give myself every opportunity to experience possibility, the more impossible the better. And finally, I must tell my story. It really doesn’t matter if it isn’t important to someone else, it’s important to me. I matter – to my son, to my weird cat, to me.

Happy New Year!

It's NOT the thought that counts.

Happy Holidays! 

I love the Winter Holiday Season. I love the lights that glow at night made even more beautiful by the frost. I love the music. I love the special foods and flavors. I love the glittery decorations. I love the trees that are trimmed and skirted. I, much like everyone else, am filled with what is traditionally referred to as the “Holiday Spirit.”

But do I love the holiday gifts? Now that is a question. 

Like many people, I have heard the saying, “It’s the thought that counts.” I assume that this is supposed to mean that a gift really isn’t supposed to be about the thing itself. When I receive a gift, I’m not supposed to be thinking about how much it cost, or where it was purchased, or if I already have something like it; I’m supposed to appreciate the “thought” behind it. What makes me nervous is when I dare to ask the question, “What is that thought?”

While I am a bit embarrassed to admit to a long string of failed relationships I’ve had, I can say that those men and women taught me a great deal about gifts and the thoughts behind them. I once had this really cute t-shirt that my son’s father had given me when we were still married. It was particularly funny because it was a fabric applique of a girl’s face that looked like a perfect cartoon image of me. It was also fitted and sassy. I was wearing it one day when I went to pick up our son from his house. His eyes narrowed into smug little slits when he saw me wear that shirt. I knew what his thought was at that moment, “I gave her that.”

I had another boyfriend who gave me a belt that just happened to go perfectly with one of my favorite Steampunk outfits. I continued to wear it after we had decided to move on from one another. When we ran into each other at a function, he said, “Nice belt.” I knew what he was thinking as he said that, “I gave her that.”

Another lover wanted to know my plans for Mother’s Day. I said that I was taking my son to a garden shop to pick out a yellow rose bush to plant in our garden. When he expressed mild horror that I was supplying the cash for it, he talked me into allowing him to buy me the rose bush. Later that summer, we went to a concert together with some of his friends. I was the final pick up on the road to the concert, so all of his friends were in the car when they arrived at my house. “See that rose bush,” he said proudly, “I gave her that.”

I Gave Her That.

That was the thought I was supposed to be so appreciative of, “I gave you that!” It meant that we were still connected. It meant ownership – not just of the gift given – but of me.

It has been my experience that the things people own become imprinted with memories and emotions; and they can even become symbols of concepts the individual believes defines them. Sometimes these things inspire or can become touchstones that provide positive comfort and grounding. Sometimes though, they become beacons of negativity sapping the life force right out of the owner. Those imprinted memories are filled with remorse and engage emotions of regret and shame. Sometimes the things people own are imbued with concepts that are no longer relevant in the present. Instead these objects instantly transport and trap a person in the echoes of the past. I have seen people (I have seen myself do it too) try to bury these things in boxes and hide them in storage units, but they still manage to become physical presences literally blocking the path towards a productive future! I call these treacherous things, Accidental Talismans.

A talisman in a magic spell is an object that is used as a touchstone for the magic. It is a placeholder to hold what I wish to create in my future. The object holds my intention and my purpose; and is created with focused thought and identified emotion. The thing is, like everyone else, I am always thinking and feeling, even if I am not focused and conscious of my intentions. That is why Accidental Talismans are so much easier to create because everything a person owns will invariably remind them of something – some thought or feeling – it may be in the back of the mind, but it is there. All things are symbols for thoughts and memories, emotions and concepts that define an individual. Gifts are particularly nasty Accidental Talismans because they don’t just store the thoughts, emotions and concepts or the receiver, they store those of the giver too. So I’m not just dealing with what thoughts and emotions and concepts that I associate with a particular object, I’m contending with whatever else the giver put in there too.

When I speak about the power that things, and Accidental Talismans have, people have observed that this phenomena does occur and most will even admit that they do still hold onto things that make them feel weaken instead of empowered. A lot of people argue with me that they can in fact change how they think and feel about a particular thing that they own - I have my doubts about that. There is no doubt however, that it is impossible, for anyone to change how someone else feels and thinks.

It didn’t matter that I liked the t-shirt, and the belt, and that I’m rather fond of yellow roses. What mattered to those three different men was that those things were a direct connection from him to me. A part of me still belonged to them because I had a thing that kept that connection alive. In my case, the gifts I mentioned took on a more nefarious “ownership” connotation. However, connection is precisely the “thought” behind all gifts. People give gifts and receive them as a symbol of the connection and the nature of their relationship.

The thoughts counting in gifts are not always darken from the ghosts of lover’s past either. Allow me to create a fictional character for the purpose of explanation – I’ll call her Aunt Milly. Almost everyone has an Aunt Milly or two in their family. Aunt Milly is that person who gives the worst gifts. They are either hideously ugly, completely impractical or just out of sync with just about everything. Aunt Milly always makes a big production when she presents her presents with some extravagant story of the hardship she underwent to acquire the gift. But she always finishes her tale with, “I saw this, and thought of you!”

Aunt Milly is pretty relatable. Nearly everyone knows someone who fits this simplistic fictional description and I have observed that nearly everyone responds to Aunt Milly’s gift in one of three ways:

1. It promptly gets chucked in the trash, or given to a rummage sale. This would be the best thing to do with it in my opinion. However, the problem is that Aunt Milly invariably will ask where her gift is, the next time she visits. The receiver can then lie that it was broken or stolen which is likely to result in Aunt Milly supplying a replacement. Or they have to face her stony stare if they tell the truth that her gift was unsuitable. 
2. It gets put in a storage box. When Aunt Milly comes to visit there is a mad dash to find it and then find a place for it. Aunt Milly will then coo and cluck over it and once again will go on and on with the extravagant story of the hardship she underwent to acquire the gift. She is also likely to bring something new that expressly goes with it. How lucky! 
3. It gets put in a room. This is quite possibly the worst thing to do with it, in my opinion. At first, the receiver will still use the room although their first thought when they see it, is “Ugh! I hate that thing!” Then over time, they will train themselves to push that thought to the back of their mind. That’s the thing with Accidental Talismans though, the thought never really goes away. It lingers, in the subconscious, and the feeling just pervades. I’ve had my own Aunt Millys and I can personally attest to the final result. I simply stopped going into the room the blasted thing was in! It was as if the thing had been given sentience. It was no longer my room, it belonged to Aunt Milly’s gift. 

What is the thought behind Aunt Milly’s gift anyway? When gifts are given it is so common to say, “I saw this and thought of you,” but I believe that what the Aunt Milly’s of the world are saying is, “Every time you see this, I want you to think of me.”

It has been suggested to me that Aunt Milly’s gift is an expression of love. Unless Aunt Milly is expressing her love of shopping, her love of martyrdom, or the love of hearing her own voice then I would disagree. And neither is it an expression of my love to Aunt Milly to accept her gift. I would not express my love to an alcoholic by buying them alcohol – how is accepting a gift from a shopaholic any different? If I really love Aunt Milly wouldn’t it be better to set boundaries? “Aunt Milly, if you really must bring me something from your trip, can you make sure it’s something that I can eat or give away?” But if the thought behind Aunt Milly’s gift really is “Every time I you see this, I want you to think of me,” doesn’t that suggest that she thinks that she is not in my thoughts unless there is a physical representation of her next to me at all times? She needs a physical representation of our connection, because she doesn’t trust that the connection between us is strong enough without it.

Don’t I need to show her that I value the connection between us? We may be related, but that relationship doesn’t carry weight without tangible connection. If I really love her wouldn’t it be better to show her how much I love her? “Aunt Milly, the only gift I want from your trip is to have you tell me all about it. Did you take any pictures? If you don’t have a scrapbook may I make one for you?”

If I really love her wouldn’t it be better to show her by taking her to lunch to hear her stories? If she doesn’t live close, can’t I call her on the telephone or write her letters to demonstrate that she is in my thoughts? If there is true connection in our relationship, Aunt Milly would respect my boundaries. She would bring me cactus candy from her journey to the desert. Or something to donate to my son’s school rummage sale.

But maybe…just maybe…it’s just so much easier to put that butt ugly gift in a box and bury it instead of addressing a truly horrible thought: Maybe…just maybe…Aunt Milly doesn’t love me. Maybe…just maybe…I don’t love Aunt Milly. Isn’t that what I’m really burying? I’m burying the fact that there isn’t a genuine relationship. I’m burying the fact that maybe, I don’t want a relationship with Aunt Milly. To me that’s akin to burying a body in the back yard. Both things are likely to haunt me.

I’ve had to face the fact that many of my lovers no longer loved me. Some told me outright and in hindsight, that was much easier to deal with. I had closure. It may have hurt more at first, but it does make moving into a productive future much easier. Closure is so much harder when the connection isn’t severed outright. That is one of the difficulties of life I have not been able to avoid and I don’t have many answers when it comes to dealing with that. I do know that holding onto the echoes of that connection will not move me anywhere except back to past, and I can’t live there – no one can.

So when I give gifts I try to do so knowing that the connection I have to that person will not always be the same. I try so hard to give gifts knowing that what I thought might have been so perfect in my mind, is actually the exact opposite. My gift may end up in the trash, because it was inappropriate, because I didn’t know the person as well as I thought I did. I’m not going to lie, that does sting a little, but it’s an opportunity to keep learning. Other people are one of the great mysteries of life – I will never know all there is to know. Isn’t that what makes the connection so exciting?

September Lessons

September is my work “birthday,” so to speak.  In September of 2002 I took the job that would alter the course of my life.  Now there are many advantages to my job and I am grateful to have it.  Yet I have often noted that gratitude is a far cry from love.  My gratitude to the job I have held for 14 years now was not helping my attitude which gradually and ever increasingly began to plummet further and further into darkness.

I was sporting full blown depression when I encountered a clever Forbes Magazine Article that changed by life.  My co-workers noticed an immediate change in me, "I am impressed by this new attitude of yours!  It's infectious!" 

I'm laughing more, definitely smiling, and my stress level is the lowest it's ever been.  What is my secret?  What was the life changing article?  “Ten Advantages to Hating Your Job” by Liz Ryan - This article helped me realize that I hate my job, and that is a good thing! 

The reality I have to face in my workplace is that I have to work with some seriously unhappy people.  I’m not referring to those to whom I give service, I can appreciate why they sometimes might be unhappy.  No, the people who really lowered my spirits were my co-workers.  Two workplace bullies in particular who I believe attempt to pleasure themselves by making as many other people as miserable as themselves.  Their antics were demoralizing until this article released me from their tyranny.  Their vile little comments and direct antagonism mean nothing to me now.  They can complain all they want about my behavior.  They can even threaten to go to the supervisor.  But they cannot threaten me with a reprimand in the company file if I have no emotional investment in the company.

Before the realization that I hated my job, a supervisor stopping by would have sent me into a fit of anxiety.  “They think I need a babysitter!  They must think I'm not doing enough!"  Now I refuse to compare my work ethic to anyone else.  I give as much as I am able, that is enough.  The supervisor now gets a true smile and a "thank you for your help."  

And oddly, acknowledging that I hate my job has enabled me to provide better service.  Now, I can give someone my full attention.  "I have all day," I say with a smile.  The next assignment is no longer a source of stress.  I'm in the moment with the person directly in front of me.

However, in accepting that I hate my job, I had to acknowledge the reason why.  I really have learned all I'm ever going to learn at my current job.  It's not about changing locations, it's the actual job.  I have gone as far as I can go.  So now, the quest becomes where do I go from here?  But instead of wasting my energy blaming my job for wasting my time, the responsibility is now on me to seek the answer to that question.

What am I here to do?  That is a huge question.  One Deepak Chopra pressed me to look at in the article “How to Find the Purpose of Your Life.”  I found the idea of making the answer to that question viable every day of my life downright daunting.

I have come to understand that I'm one of those people determined to do what I think others want me to do.  I'm aware that is an impossible task and yet I am still determined to do it anyway.  My martyrdom though is avoiding the question:  what am I here to do?  If I'm busy guessing at what everyone else wants, then I have effectively deflected the question of my own destiny.

Not only am I deflecting my destiny, I’m deflecting people too.  My need to guess at everyone’s intentions gives me quite the excuse to avoid people altogether.  My friends do a remarkable job accommodating me when I routinely bow out of get-togethers.  KJ Dell’Antonia made me think hard about this practice of mine and made me think about my contribution to my relationships in the article “Am I Introverted, or Just Rude?”  

I am finally beginning to understand that if my schedule is full I do not have to overwhelm myself to be of service to others.  I also have the right to say no, just because I want to.  If I begrudgingly do something that I don't want to, I'm not doing anybody any service.  There is a difference however between an invitation from my second cousin whose political leanings drive me batty, and the birthday party of my best friend.  If I fail to show up to the birthday for the second year in a row, that is an issue that needs to be addressed.  I can blame my absence on my schedule and my priorities or on my boundaries and introversion but none of those excuses is going to help me foster my relationship to my best friend.  

Relationships are based on sharing - our time, our energy and our selves.  I can't expect to be exempt from reciprocation.  Parties may not be important to me but if they are important to my best friend, her party should make it to the top of my priorities.  If she really is important to me. 

I can show up.  I can talk to my friend's mother.  I can share how we met with her second cousin whose political leanings drive me batty.  I can choose to put aside my annoyance of crowds and my anxiety of being judged and even my need to guess at what someone else wants me to do.  Yes, it is possible that my friend's second cousin will think I'm a lawless godless witch out to destroy humanity as we know it.  And it is more than likely that I will be unable to correctly guess at the right behavior that second cousin wants from me in order to feel comfortable and not as though she is about to be eaten by the lawless and godless witch.  But so what? I'm not important in these circumstances.  It's my best friend's birthday, it's her time to be important.

And after an hour or two I can go to my friend and say to her, "Happy Birthday! I'm so grateful I had the opportunity to be here with you!"  And then it's not just my words that communicate how important my friend is to me, it's my actions.  They are synchronized.  And that intimacy between us has meaning.

I want intimacy with all things.  

I came across this Matt Daniell’s Ted Talk through the article "Are You Just Sleepwalking at Work?" By Bruce Kasanoff. As I watched this video I realized that I was similarly inspired. I want intimacy with all things. I want to have an awareness of the present moment. I want clarity of focus.

Mr. Daniell points out that receiving is important. Receiving is a step of being present. I have to be willing to receive information not just from my environment but from myself as well. I need to know how I'm breathing and what I'm thinking and what I'm feeling. I need to have this awareness to obtain that clarity of focus with the present moment. If I really want intimacy with all things, I have to be willing to sip my tea, and observe and receive in order to stop the internal war within.

I wasn’t sipping tea, it was coffee when I had the epiphany that I hated the job I have been so grateful for these past fourteen years. When I realized that, I had to face the fact that I’ve been so busy doing this job because that was what I thought everyone else wanted me to do. And then I had to face that I had forgotten who I am.

During the depression that I mentioned, I started to read Rhonda Britten’s book Fearless Living. She has this amazing concept that there is an essential nature to every individual. She gives a list, but there was one word on that list that I would not under any circumstance acknowledge. The word was creative.

One of my all-time favorite actresses is Nicole Kidman. I revere her because in her movies, you don’t see her, Nicole Kidman, you see the character. She’s so good, sometimes she’s unrecognizable until the credits role. It is also true that I think she is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. For most of my life I believed that I was ugly. I didn’t exactly want to change my body, but I thought I was nothing special and most certainly plain. Then, when my son was still in diapers, one of his babysitters held up a fashion magazine with Nicole Kidman on the cover and she asked my son, “Who’s this?” He responded quickly and simply, “Mommy.” My babysitter was trying to show me something which I refused to see. The woman I revered for her talent and her beauty - I looked like her.

I can also sing and I can also act, like the woman I so revered. I am creative like Nicole Kidman.

Creative is my essential nature whether I want to acknowledge that or not. I am grateful for my job and yet I cannot grow anymore there because it does not allow me to be creative. In fact, my job rather frowns on creativity.

I didn’t really understand why I was so resistant to what was supposed to be my essential nature until during some research for my previous blog post on Accidental Talismans of the Verbal Kind I came across Brene Brown’s Video on Listening to Shame.


She said that among innovation and change, creativity is born from vulnerability. In order to have intimacy with all things I must first have intimacy with myself. I must let go of guessing at what others want, and first consider what it is that I want. That takes great vulnerability.

Looks like I have a great deal of work to do.