Mugs and the attachments that manifest with age
The mug goes into the soapy water. I pull it out to wipe around the lip and notice the enamel has chipped in sections. My oversized mug, shaped and painted like a hippie van with the words “not all who wander are lost” on the side, has seen a lot of miles and herbal tea. This is my day tea mug, and it reminds me of my mom, who found it in a yoga shop and gifted it to me. My evening tea mug comes from my dearest friend, who brought it to me after a visit to P.E.I. Below the crescent moon painted in a midnight sky, there’s a border of red clay like a rolling sandy beach on the island. In the morning, my choice of coffee mugs alternates. What calls to me today? Do I pick the mug my brother gave me from the coffee shop we frequented during our university years? Or the mug with mountains that another dear friend gave me one Christmas as a reminder that we could dream big as we reimagined the future of our yoga studio? Another favourite, often in rotation, is a ceramic mug a co-worker/friend crafted, and its smooth glaze and textured sides make me think of the creative hours infused into this project. I apologize for the mugs I’m not mentioning here, but for brevity, I need to move on to the point.
Knowing that attachment is one of the root causes of suffering, I try, I really do, to practice non-attachment, or aparigraha, in yoga philosophy. It was easier when I was younger. I lived out of a backpack for a time, and when I found a place to set down temporary roots, I generally moved on three years later. I was frugal. But even if my twenties and early thirties were somewhat nomadic, I collected little treasures, small enough to carry with me. When I drove across the country to start a new life on the North Coast of BC, I packed those treasures in my fierce red hatchback — the books I couldn’t live without, my running medals, a one-eyed daruma doll, a singing bowl, a framed print of Hokusai’s feminine wave, a Mumford and Sons concert T-shirt, etc. In the cup holders, I stowed three meaningful house plants, including a cutting of a jade plant that my parents had in their bay window since I was in high school.
Mugs, plants. There are so many more attachments that have manifested as I count the years. As my grandmothers moved out of their homes and into apartments and care facilities, I have accumulated an abundance of familial treasures. Now, their memories live in the furnishings that give my home a cozy, grandma-core vibe. Less often than I used to, I imagine letting it all go to live in a van or backpack across the world.
Maturing and settling down has re-introduced another layer of memories. My parents, unbeknownst to me (or I willfully ignored), stowed away the mementos from my formative years, and it’s a whole new form of unboxing. They have been kind enough to give it to me in stages to avoid total overwhelm. Each time, I’m surprised by what they’ve kept, like a shoebox filled with notes I’d passed in high school — that was how we texted in the late 90s-early 2000s. I read them all as I threw them in a fire. I could let those go. But not the journals. Over the holiday, my partner built me a library, and I stayed up late to line up each diary in chronological order starting in 1995. The special editions include my scribblings from England, Fiji, New Zealand, Japan, Thailand, Nepal, Poland, Scotland, and Prince Rupert. It’s incredible to turn the pages and read what I thought was important enough to write about. A record of my own history.
My memory isn’t what it used to be — or rather, there’s so much packed in there that I can’t contain it all. I’m like a computer without the ability to add additional storage to the hard drive. Memories that I haven’t recalled for some time seem to disappear into my own internal cloud storage. They’re there, but it takes a trigger and time to extract. This is why I like my little treasures, my many mugs, my jungle of plants and the containers that hold them, they give me an electric surge of recall. It could be a feeling, a colour, a flash image, or a whole story.
This may read as the ramblings of a person in the early stages of hoarding disorder, and I promise you I am aware of that slippery slope. As much as I love how keepsakes in my home have the power to revive memory, when I go outside I can experience the same. A certain weather pattern, a redolent forest, or a tune can bring me back without warning. I am made of stardust, organic elements, and a collection of memories with more to come.
Yours Truly,
Fearless Forty
