Here’s a family story from my growing up years. One day when my older sister was in second grade, her teacher asked what brand of car the students’ parents drove. In the mid-50s, cars were often viewed as symbols of wealth and prestige, and still are today, even among grade school kids. But I think the teacher’s question was not so much about status as about how families function and the decisions they make—a typical second grade social studies lesson plan, followed by occupations. What do your parents do for a living? What does a fireman do? What does a policeman do? What does a banker do? Anyway, the students responded to the teacher’s question with such car brands as Chevrolet, Ford, Buick, Pontiac, Plymouth, Chrysler, Oldsmobile, and Cadillac. At the time, I think my parents drove a faded-purple, rear-wheel-drive Studebaker, a four-door though one of the back doors didn’t open. Whatever car they could afford, which was not much since my dad had just begun to earn a salary after years of medical training. So, after my sister listened to her classmates rattle off the names of all those luxury cars, she stood, pulled her petite body up straight, tossed her red hair, and said, “In our family, cars are called transportation.” That story became one of the symbols of frugality and practicality in our New England family. And we belly-laughed every time we heard the punchline—and still do.
At the Feira da Ladra in Lisbon a few weeks ago, I unexpectedly became focused on finding a fan. In Malaga, Spain, a few days prior, I observed a ton of plastic imports being fobbed off on drunk tourists and had no inclination to buy, have, or use one, but in Portugal local women were using them and it stirred up fond memories. I picked up and fluttered quite a few but either the tacky embellishments, decrepit condition, or unreasonable price I was quoted led to no sale. In examining my criteria for “the right one”, I realised that I've had a long standing connection to the fan. Last year I brought home my grandmother's delicate paper fan she'd use in church on Sundays. For our summer wedding on the pier in sultry Baltimore, I designed our program to be a fan including a personal word search and a recap of our request to contribute to my sister's crowdfunding effort for grad school instead of gifts. The photos of my now husband and maid of honour helping with the assembly are priceless. Eventually, I found a monochromatic, intact little turquoise number for €5. It's made of wood and fabric and is a little smaller than most. I've taken it out with me here in England, to the envy of every menopausal woman we pass, but to me, it's a delightfully nostalgic, coquettish accessory that makes me feel especially fun and feminine.
My necklace, the one I always wear, is a small infinity symbol on a slender silver chain. Inside the symbol is a tiny chamber into which the mortician poured - carefully - a portion of my younger brother's ashes. Such a small space for what is to me momentous, and he told me never to undo the closure because the ashes were so few they would fall out and I'd lose them like I lost Bill.
I was six when I finally weaseled my way onto a player’s seat at the round table of the big kids’ Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game. This was a seminal moment of approval, green-lighting my early foray into adulthood. It was the mid-eighties and D & D was a cultural phenomenon. I learned how to play it with my older brother and cousins, along with everyone else bored to death in small town America. Paper, pencil, dice, and books were all we needed to have fun. The fantasies changed us.
This early use of critical thinking fed my interest in the esoteric and occult. From Chaos Theory to the Golden Dawn, I searched and researched, excited by deeper meaning. I read about how to visualize sigils, symbols fired off at a moment’s notice, to achieve a specific result. I became aware of coincidence and kept alert for synchronicity. All this came naturally to me, being raised by a mom with a sharp eye for the spirit world.
Those gaming years taught me to respect the unseen, to remain skeptical of the prescribed answer, to create my own solution. After all, this reality is what we make of it.
My interest in symbols lies around the power that comes from a collective group of people--sometimes dozens, sometimes hundreds--attaching stories, memories, hopes, fears to that symbol. Money, economies, language....they're all symbols that only have power because we give them power, because we collectively accept and believe those symbols mean what we say they mean.
Here’s a family story from my growing up years. One day when my older sister was in second grade, her teacher asked what brand of car the students’ parents drove. In the mid-50s, cars were often viewed as symbols of wealth and prestige, and still are today, even among grade school kids. But I think the teacher’s question was not so much about status as about how families function and the decisions they make—a typical second grade social studies lesson plan, followed by occupations. What do your parents do for a living? What does a fireman do? What does a policeman do? What does a banker do? Anyway, the students responded to the teacher’s question with such car brands as Chevrolet, Ford, Buick, Pontiac, Plymouth, Chrysler, Oldsmobile, and Cadillac. At the time, I think my parents drove a faded-purple, rear-wheel-drive Studebaker, a four-door though one of the back doors didn’t open. Whatever car they could afford, which was not much since my dad had just begun to earn a salary after years of medical training. So, after my sister listened to her classmates rattle off the names of all those luxury cars, she stood, pulled her petite body up straight, tossed her red hair, and said, “In our family, cars are called transportation.” That story became one of the symbols of frugality and practicality in our New England family. And we belly-laughed every time we heard the punchline—and still do.
At the Feira da Ladra in Lisbon a few weeks ago, I unexpectedly became focused on finding a fan. In Malaga, Spain, a few days prior, I observed a ton of plastic imports being fobbed off on drunk tourists and had no inclination to buy, have, or use one, but in Portugal local women were using them and it stirred up fond memories. I picked up and fluttered quite a few but either the tacky embellishments, decrepit condition, or unreasonable price I was quoted led to no sale. In examining my criteria for “the right one”, I realised that I've had a long standing connection to the fan. Last year I brought home my grandmother's delicate paper fan she'd use in church on Sundays. For our summer wedding on the pier in sultry Baltimore, I designed our program to be a fan including a personal word search and a recap of our request to contribute to my sister's crowdfunding effort for grad school instead of gifts. The photos of my now husband and maid of honour helping with the assembly are priceless. Eventually, I found a monochromatic, intact little turquoise number for €5. It's made of wood and fabric and is a little smaller than most. I've taken it out with me here in England, to the envy of every menopausal woman we pass, but to me, it's a delightfully nostalgic, coquettish accessory that makes me feel especially fun and feminine.
My necklace, the one I always wear, is a small infinity symbol on a slender silver chain. Inside the symbol is a tiny chamber into which the mortician poured - carefully - a portion of my younger brother's ashes. Such a small space for what is to me momentous, and he told me never to undo the closure because the ashes were so few they would fall out and I'd lose them like I lost Bill.
I was six when I finally weaseled my way onto a player’s seat at the round table of the big kids’ Dungeons & Dragons role-playing game. This was a seminal moment of approval, green-lighting my early foray into adulthood. It was the mid-eighties and D & D was a cultural phenomenon. I learned how to play it with my older brother and cousins, along with everyone else bored to death in small town America. Paper, pencil, dice, and books were all we needed to have fun. The fantasies changed us.
This early use of critical thinking fed my interest in the esoteric and occult. From Chaos Theory to the Golden Dawn, I searched and researched, excited by deeper meaning. I read about how to visualize sigils, symbols fired off at a moment’s notice, to achieve a specific result. I became aware of coincidence and kept alert for synchronicity. All this came naturally to me, being raised by a mom with a sharp eye for the spirit world.
Those gaming years taught me to respect the unseen, to remain skeptical of the prescribed answer, to create my own solution. After all, this reality is what we make of it.
My interest in symbols lies around the power that comes from a collective group of people--sometimes dozens, sometimes hundreds--attaching stories, memories, hopes, fears to that symbol. Money, economies, language....they're all symbols that only have power because we give them power, because we collectively accept and believe those symbols mean what we say they mean.