Talismans
My Christmas tree is a riot of colorful lights and sentimental ornaments. My husband would prefer white lights, but he doesn’t argue as we wind them around the tree from the top down, especially as we stop in the middle to add two rows of his favorite bubble lights, and almost always end with a single strand of football helmets from his favorite team. Each kid has his or her own smaller tree, and we divide up the ornaments every year, everyone excited to see old favorites again.
Every now and then, I consider switching to an all-white tree with matching ornaments, something tasteful and classy. I admire pictures posted by people whose trees are a true showcase. But I don’t think this will ever be me, because I’d miss all the memories scattered across our old tree, all those moments hung by bits of ribbon or thin curved wire. They are charms I hold close to bring us all joy.
My daughter and I love these—we have so many from various years.
Old souvenir of the year my dad and I got to go to NCTE together in New York.
I have always looked for talismans like this. I have been fascinated with the idea of a lucky charm ever since I bought a rabbit’s foot for 50 cents at an amusement park when I was 10. I didn’t believe in the good fortune it was supposed to bring, but I liked the smooth, silky feel of its fur. As a child my talisman was a book, my lucky charm to ward off boredom. There was always a moment to sneak in a few more pages, even at night, when I could read in the car between street lights.
As an adult, I still believe in the soothing powers of items that are special to you, and I love to carry some of them with me. My shoulder bag always has to be big enough for whatever book I’m reading, and a notebook--two things that help me feel more equipped to handle the unknown in a day.
Sometimes, my charms have to do with important people in my life, as if by carrying things that represent my favorite people, I can keep them close to me and have some control, no matter how far they go and how little I can see them. My bag often contains handwritten messages from friends. I used to carry the first poem my husband wrote for me, scrawled on a sheet of notebook paper, until I realized that the folds in the old paper were fraying around the words. I have tucked in letters from college friends and cards from parents of students. Right now, bouncing around with my lipsticks, I carry a tiny black elephant that fell off a keychain my sister sent me from Thailand, which I slid into the makeup bag when she was still spending two years overseas on missions. It reminded me of the constant jokes that we couldn’t share, and although she’s been back for years now, it stays in my bag, a tangible reminder of our enduring friendship..
I read once about a girl who carried a whole bag of stuff with her wherever she traveled—cotton bolls, photographs, stuffed animals, a special feather pillow. I thought she was crazy, bringing such a ridiculous mess of things to every hotel room, every friend’s house, and then lining them up on her mantel at home. They’re just things, I would think. And this is true. But now I understand where she was coming from. There’s a consoling power in having symbolic things, in holding them and touching them quickly throughout the day. In remembering the redemptive power of love. In reminding myself that I am never alone.
