Holding on and letting go
I’ve never cared much about objects. I’m a bit forgetful and a bit clumsy, so I’m used with things coming and going. There was a time when I attended some competitions and I really wanted to have some good luck charm. I tried with bracelets, a necklace and even some red panties, but the randomness of my success convinced me that nothing really helps.
I moved only twice, but every time I left behind many things and the next time I move, I will take even less with me. But if I had to choose some objects that affected me deeply, I need to go to the early years and my childhood home. I still keep there all my old notebooks with all my thoughts and worries, Pinky is still there, stuffed teddy and most loyal friend, the books, the pictures and all the glass marbles from which my universe was built. And on the wall of my room, ever since I was born, there is an orthodox Icon. A square piece of wood, painted with warm colors, representing Virgin Mary with baby Jesus in her arms. I was never a religious person, I grew up having my own type of belief and no one in my immediate family is truly respecting the dogma. But this piece of wood has something magic, it is alive. It says on its back that it was hallowed in the Friday before Easter, in a day representing sacrifice and grief. It was a gift from my grandmother, one of the people I loved the most. It helped me to cope with losing her, it kept my heart and my faith from shattering. And when I need comfort and protection, when I pray and when I cry, I turn to that image: Virgin Mary, Baby Jesus, warm colors, my grandmother.