#279
"It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." -Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Somewhere in a box in my closet, there's a card made of pistachio shells.
One of my older cousins had colored the top of each one, painstakingly, shell by shell, and glued them into place to spell out "All The Best". She had made this for my tenth grade board exams. The kind of exam where the whole extended family collectively holds its breath for the first time.
I don't remember much about studying for those exams. I remember the card.
In that same box: a letter from my younger cousin, back when she was still learning her letters — literally. She didn't know cursive yet, so in my reply, I wrote out the whole alphabet for her, looping and slanted, showing her how each letter connected to the next. She wrote back with a drawing tucked inside. Two stick figures holding hands. Big sister, little sister, her handwriting rather neat and coherent for a three-year-old. I can't exactly describe what I feel when I look at it. I've tried to find the word and I can't. Maybe it doesn't need one.
The box also contains gifts from my girl-cousin duo at my bachelorette, the notes from all the birthday gifts my Dad has given me over the years, and origami cranes a tour guide in Japan folded for us on our last day, making it one of the highlights of our trip. Small things creating big waves.
Over time, an item became a folder. A folder became a box. And soon, it became several folders inside an ever-growing bigger box. I used to revisit the box once a year and wonder if I'd had anything that I wanted to get rid of as part of "Kon-mari"-ing the house. But every year, the answer would be a hard no, since all it would do is make me feel valued and loved and grateful for my family, friends, and experiences in life.
There's a concept in psychology called attachment theory. It's the idea that humans need a "secure base," something or someone that reminds the nervous system it's safe, it's held, it belongs. Usually that's a person. But objects can borrow that job too. The pistachio card isn't just paper, color, and shell. It's a younger version of me being told, in the most literal glued-together way possible, that someone rooted for her.
Marie Kondo asks if a thing sparks joy right now, hands on it, this exact moment. Most days, I'm on board. But some things don't need to spark anything today to matter. The cursive letter doesn't spark joy on a random Wednesday in my closet. It's a record of two sisters learning each other's handwriting, and that's enough of a reason to keep it.
I no longer assess this box on what item earns its keep. Rather, I feel a sense of pride when the box gets bigger because to me, that's what an accumulated life looks like: a slow collection of little things people didn't have to do, but did anyway.
I imagine this box a few years from now. Heavier. Fuller. More folders than it has any business having. Still full of pistachio shells and cursive letters and cranes from a woman in Japan I might never see again.
"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel." -Maya Angelou
