Transitional Objects

By Sherrie Cassel

I’m staring at the dried, yellow flowers immortalized in clear resin and mounted on a piece of dark wood. This is a gift my son gave to me when he was just a young child. With no child support from a dead-beat biological father, money was always tight, and thrift stores were so much more exciting than fighting for parking spots or racing to get the last of something everyone else wants just as badly. Or counting my change to buy my son a brand new pair of shoes.

Even after Rikki was making his own money and had developed his own style, he loved thrift stores. Going to them was like going on an expedition, a treasure hunt, and we always found something. My mother used to say I always struck gold when I’d hit up the thrift stores.

Objects can be evocative. This morning, the resin ball reminds me of where my son purchased it and how he was so proud of himself to give me something he bought with his own money when he was barely out of toddlerhood. Yes, this is a beautiful memory. I’ve had it with me for decades now; it is more valuable than gold to me. Funny, how voices, ours, someone else’s, or even our ancestors speak through our mementos.

My son spent a few times in rehab before he died from heroin and alcohol addiction. During the time he was there, he learned a lot of life skills through different media, i.e., collage, painting, poetry, etc. Rikki painted two pieces which hang on my wall in my home office. I see my son’s soul through each element of his artwork, each piece of tissue paper in his collages, each color.

“Things”, in Spanish “chingaderas” – can bring us to our knees, make us laugh, or give us pause for thought, i.e., The Korean War Memorial, or a tiny ball of resin. This object reminds me of the 70s when this type of art was popular, as were sand candles and macrame. This object of beauty gifted to me by my son beckons me to the 70s, an idyllic time for me, and even though – my son was not a part of those years, I carry him with me into my past, just as I carry him into every single day since his birth and since his death.

As Bruce Hornsby sings, “That’s just the way it is.”

Walter Benjamin wrote an essay about how he shelves his books. My books may be as valuable to me as gold is to our economy. I’m not a hoarder, but I have an extensive library. As much as I love the entire sensual experience of holding a book in my hands, to save space, I’m eternally grateful for my Kindle.

I don’t have a method to my shelving; if they fit, they go on the shelf. I have the kind of memory about some things that mentally locates items, i.e., I’ll know where I saw it last, even if it was days ago. Nothing to write home about, but my books are in no particular order, and most of the time, I remember where on which shelf a book is I’m trying to locate. My son loved to read too. I have his copy of his favorite book, THE COUNT OF MONTECRISTO. I haven’t read it yet, but I plan to. The book is holy because it was so special to my son.

The resin ball is holy because it was a gift from my little boy and it has traveled with me for over forty years; it sits prominently on my desk. Some people speak about different energies, and while I’m not sure of the many types of energies there are, i.e., I know nothing about chakric science, so I can’t speak to it, but I do feel as if there is something very holy about most everything, i.e., artifacts of beauty, and it is true; beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

For example, I love the artwork of Gottfried Helnwein; I find it to be gorgeous, while some might find it a bit macabre. “The Song” especially speaks to me. I encourage you to check it out. Today I’m going to rearrange my office in preparation for a house guest, and because, well, it just plain needs it. I anticipate I’ll run across trinkets and tokens I’ve carried with me throughout my sixty-three years.

I have a doll named Minerva I’ve had since I was single digits. My mother, who saved EVERYTHING her kids ever made for her or that belonged to them, kept Minerva safe until I could tolerate the memories that came with her. I had forgotten all about her. She represents cold, hard survival. She is plastic which I never found to be conducive to building a comforting transitional object. My teddy bear, Pohleeta, didn’t survive the years, but she was of far greater comfort to me than Minerva. Pohleeta was soft and squishy, like a mom should be.

Minerva was my first object lesson in projection. I chopped off all her hair and made her ugly. She travels with me now; and my mother dressed her in a cute outfit she found in a thrift store; it’s a multigenerational thing, or is it poverty that is the mother of amazing creativity /inventions with one’s finances?

Minerva sits atop one of my smaller bookshelves. She sits next to a doll my mother purchased, again – from a thrift store. The doll is ugly. She has the same hair cut I gave to Minerva. My mother found cute clothes to dress up this poor little orphan baby doll; this speaks volumes for both my mother and me.

I have my three degrees on the wall in the order in which I received them, B.S., A.A., and M.A. placed on my wall with a sun and a moon in the place where my doctorate will go when, if I’m able to complete it before I hit that road to eternity. Life has flown by at the speed of light and here I am, looking toward my 64th birthday. I’ve come so far…on the shoulders of giants.

The wind is howling in my tiny desert town; there’s a chill in the air. I’m doing really well in my life. I have what I need, maybe not always what I want, but my needs are few these days. Give me a book and put me in a corner and I’m happy as a clam!

This rambling has been brought to you by serotonin and dopamine. I’m on top of the world, and one reason is because I took the energy I feel toward my son in the form of love and I infused the resin ball with it; the object inspired me to miss my son, to remember him tenderly; and it reminded me to hold on greedily to memories that are sweet, especially when darker memories become intrusive. Bait and switch that hurtful memory. I’m not saying to dissociate, but if you’re not in a space where you can have a meltdown, change your thoughts; you really can.

I wish you each the kind of day you need – surrounded by the things that make you feel most at home within yourself.

Namaste