I have a spot in my bedroom where I sit every morning and spend quiet time with the Lord; reading, praying, journaling, studying. It’s also the spot I usually blog from. It includes a chair, a small table, a big picture window facing my backyard, and a Franklin library stand. As I was sitting there this morning, something dawned on me and I took a picture of it.
This one spot contains six different memories; the black mug is from a shopping trip with my sister; the cozy around the mug is something I made at my sister’s house using her buttons; the pencil mug is from a trip to Tennessee with my sister and my best friend where the three of us first met my granddaughter, Leah, when she was three weeks old; the rock is from a trip to Boston with my sister and another friend; the Franklin library was made for me by a very dear friend who has since gone to be with the Lord; and the guitar picks are from when my high school friend came to visit this year. Everything but the black mug sits here on a permanent basis.
It’s amazing to me that this one spot in my house contains so many memories, and so many of them involve my sister! I’m wondering if this is another aging thing? I mean, at some point, we can’t help but be surrounded by memories because we’ve been around long enough to make a ton of them, right? I guess I could remove these items from the table I sit by every morning and then such would not be the case. I don’t want to though. The people and times these objects represent are precious to me and I enjoy remembering them.
I hadn’t realized, though, that I was in the habit of surrounding myself with so many memories. As I look around the room, however, my suspicions are confirmed. I am a sentimental person who hangs onto things for their sentimental value. Possibly otherwise known as a “sentimentalist”, but I could not confirm the existence of that word. I only got “sentimentalism” when I looked for it. I think that’s what I am though, a sentimentalist. I wonder what my house will look like when I’m 70. 🤔