'Things' can be an empty word, but it can also carry deep meaning.

Special, seemingly unimportant objects, fill us with gratitude.

Joy can be found in the smallest of possessions that are overlooked by others.

As a professor, I was guilty of circling the word "things" on my students’ essays, cringing at this empty space of a six-letter word. My comment to them: “Think of another word instead of this hollow filler.” But my various possessions from my loved ones have become my things, what others might deem as unimportant and inconsequential objects, yet special to my existence and my memories.

List of the times my mother wore the necklace

My father’s scribbled list of the 27 dates and occasions when my mother wore the special necklace. This pearl and diamond necklace (known as the necklace) was bequeathed to her by her best friend Jean upon her death. The second date on the list is our wedding, June 27, 1976. The last date listed is November 14, 1993, when my mother wore it to a friend's daughter's wedding. Two years later, my father had his major stroke. I walked downstairs in my childhood home to breathe in my father’s essence: his Old English cologne and the mustiness of the rumpus room that evolved into his favorite room: his office. There, on his desk, lay The List. But this mundane thing, my father’s ordinary list of dates and locations, is my forever possession.

Marilyn’s size 8 black leather ballet flats

The comfortable Walking Company flats lay between my other pairs of the same color. No one would know how special these shoes are, resting with the other similar styles. We never wore the same size shoes, but as she aged, she expanded from a 7 to an 8 due to her wide foot and water retention. She called them her Flintstone Feet. I have always been a size 8½, but I can wear Marilyn’s shoes, gifted to me by my brother when we packed up her clothing. And, even if they weren’t comfortable, I would squash my feet into them as if I were one of Cinderella’s cruel stepsisters, squeezing into a glass slipper. They mean too much to me to give them away.

My mother’s bright red Mac lipstick

I was always enthralled by her choice of bold colors on her full lips. I glance at myself in the mirror, and I see my lips with the same colors. I haven’t worn her lipstick, for it feels unsettling to apply the 18-year-old colored stick to my lips, the exact lipstick used by my mother. Instead, I save it in my box of "things," another treasure of significance only to me.

My inspirational cards from Marion

Seven meaningful Marion cards fill a special wooden box. Marion, one of my best friends, died suddenly when we were both 49. She was my main cheerleader when I returned to graduate school and sent cards to cheer me on. “You’re 2/3 done," she wrote when I began my third and final year. I am a keeper of words, and I cherish hers.

Jeffrey’s birth plaque

Each of us children, upon birth, was gifted by Nana Bea a wooden painted square-framed plaque memorializing our births with the date, weight, length, and the day of the week we were born, along with the corresponding phrase from the familiar "Monday's Child" nursery rhyme. Jeffrey, the brother who died before me and who gave me space to be born, was born on a Tuesday. Tuesday’s child is full of grace. He was supposed to give it to his son one day, yet this heirloom was still almost new when he passed away at 2. As with his unfinished baby book, the plaque was relegated to the back of our family’s garage, covered with an old sheet. Today, it is mine, on my bookcase. The only physical memento I have of a little boy whom I had never met, yet greatly affected my own life.

Nana’s gold-filled pin attached to the note from my dad

Dad wrote, “I found this in Nana Bea’s drawer. I thought you would want it. Love, Dad.” It was date-stamped August 31, 1992. Dad always put the date on everything and anything. The note is as precious to me as Nana’s pin. Dad was always thinking about me and encouraging my connection with my grandmother. He sensed how important she was in my life. And his love of little notes became my own. So simple yet meant everything.

We recently moved about an hour away from our house of 40 years. One of my dearest friends, Denise, gave us a housewarming gift along with a special card with a plaque: Welcome Home. It is on my desk as a constant reminder that our new home is now our forever home, one where I am joyful to wake up and walk around our beautiful lake one block away, and to be reminded that Paul and I are together and will celebrate our 50th anniversary.

A new addition to my "things" is a painted stone. It reflects a new hobby for me. I found a stone outside our new home and painted it in a stained-glass motif, covered in bright colors, reflecting our new, vibrant life.

Every day, I encounter one of the meaningful things in my life that enrich my soul. If I could talk to my students once again, I would remind them that it is rare to effectively use the word "things,” but when it represents our small, yet powerful joys, it transforms into the perfect word! We all have our special things, but we have limited time to reflect on the small elements of our lives that enrich us. What are your things?

There was a problem adding your email address. Please try again.

By submitting your information you agree to the Psychology Today Terms & Conditions and Privacy Policy

© Psychology Today