Unquiet
Things

Memory works in funny ways, living in fragments and feelings more than solid details – it’s a bit like peering through the glass at a dollhouse scene, where some things snap into perfect focus while others stay pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

For years, I’ve carried this memory of a childhood museum visit: walking up dark ramps, my small hand probably clutched in my grandmother’s (Lady Sue, my father’s mother – not to be confused with Mawga, my maternal grandmother, who starred in so many other childhood adventures and shows up frequently in this blog), as we gazed through windows at tiny rooms that glowed like jewel boxes in the dim light.

When I mentioned this memory to my youngest sister recently, she immediately suggested that it must have been the Museum of Miniatures in Carmel, and for a moment, those fuzzy edges seemed to sharpen. And so we made plans and last month, I made my way to Carmel, excited to revisit this piece of my childhood. But as soon as I stepped into the charming converted church that houses the current museum, I knew this wasn’t the place I remembered.

More talks with my sister afterward and some internet digging led us to the truth: those childhood memory-fragments lined up perfectly with the Thorne Miniature Rooms in Chicago. In later looking at photos online, I felt that little jolt of recognition – aha! yes! These were the elegant, carefully crafted rooms I remembered. Seeing them again brought back not just the memory of that visit with Lady Sue, but all the stories that shaped my young imagination around miniature worlds.

Because it wasn’t just those museum rooms that captivated me – it was the stories about tiny people living secret lives right next to us. The Borrowers, The Littles, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, and later, Studio Ghibli’s The Secret World of Arrietty – these tales changed how I looked at every little corner of the world. Every crack in a baseboard, each mysterious hole in a garden wall, became a possible doorway to some hidden community. These stories taught me to start looking for the magic in everyday things – a postage stamp becoming a masterpiece in a tiny gallery, a safety pin transformed into a sword, a teacup doing duty as a bathtub. Even now, I catch myself being careful around established rosebushes, wondering about the tiny homes and borrowed treasures that might be tucked beneath those thorns.

This fascination with miniatures followed all three of us sisters into adulthood, though it manifested differently for each of us. My sisters embraced their childhood love of dollhouses with grown-up collections – their tiny rooms filled with perfectly arranged furniture and carefully chosen accessories. But my relationship with these little dwellings has always been more complicated. Despite how much I loved peering into these perfect little worlds, I never felt I deserved a dollhouse of my own. My reasoning, flimsy as it was, went like this: I can’t even decorate my own full-sized home properly. My pretty things tend to pile up in heaps and clusters, like a magpie’s collection waiting to be properly shown off. If I couldn’t handle organizing normal-sized spaces, what business did I have trying it in miniature? (Though in a funny twist, while I’ve denied myself a dollhouse, I’ve somehow ended up with quite a collection of creepy dolls over the years – but that’s a different story, one about how childhood fascinations grow up right along with us.)

So when I visited the Carmel museum last month, I found myself comparing its treasures to both my childhood imaginings and my adult hesitations. The museum, housed in that converted church, felt like a different kind of sanctuary. It was full of impressive recreations, from Sherlock Holmes’ 221B Baker Street to the Addams Family mansion, and the tiniest details that caught my eye and made my heart go pitter-pat–jewelry boxes with impossibly small hinges, tiny treasure chests that looked like they’d been plucked right out of a dollhouse-sized Cave of Wonders, and best of all, a perfectly scaled beaded necklace draped across a lady’s vanity.

These museum pieces were worlds away from my beloved Borrowers and Littles, with their clever makeshift solution, like Arrietty using a clothespin for a hair clip or a fallen leaf as a lampshade. Here, instead, every piece was crafted exactly to scale, tiny treasures made with as much skill and care as their full-sized versions. I pressed my face to the glass just like I did as a kid, amazed at how these craftspeople had caught not just the look but the very soul of these tiny objects. The way light played on the miniature beads, the faint gleam of tiny metal clasps, the careful arrangement of microscopic bottles and brushes on the vanity – each detail showing just how much artistry is possible at such a small scale.

As a kid, my imagination ran wild with possibilities. I even believed, with that rock-solid certainty that only kids can have, that a microscopic civilization lived in my stomach, surviving on my daily bowl of Wheat Chex. Now, as an adult who collects perfumes and ghost stories, who knits and cooks and lives among creepy dolls, I see it’s all part of the same impulse – this need to gather and arrange small things, to create little pockets of order in an oversized world.

Whether it was the Thorne Miniature Rooms or somewhere else, that museum visit happened to little-me, and it was a very formative memory! Though now I wonder how many other childhood memories I’ve mixed up or mistaken–but is it even a childhood memory worth having if there isn’t a little bit of magic and mystery and make-believe mixed in?

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More than once over the past few months, I heard myself mumble despairingly, “I don’t think I can take another Florida summer.”

Even though I have lived here practically my whole life, I know deep in my soul that this is not where I am meant to be. (I’m certain that my soul is meant to be on the misty Pacific Northwest coastline or in a quaint New England town.) And yet, for the foreseeable future, Florida is where I must be. How to reconcile this?

This tension between where we feel we belong and where circumstances have us living is a struggle I know I’m not alone in facing. As I write this, I’m exploring the idea of “making peace with place” – trying to understand if it’s possible to find a way to thrive and find joy in our current location, even if it’s not our ideal. Can we truly make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home?

I don’t have the answers, but I’m compelled to examine this conflict between my reality and my desires.

I was born in Ohio and lived there until the summer after my third-grade year. I know we had “seasons” there, but being indoctrinated in the hellscape of Florida summers for most of my life must have scoured all the experiences of cool temperatures and crisp air from my memory: the only season I can recall growing up in Milford Ohio is summer.

Weeks of being conscripted into summer camp arts and crafts and snacks with the Brownies, more weeks of vacation summer Bible school with my neighbor’s kids (I suspect summer camp was an excuse for my mother to get us out of her hair; no one in my family was religious.) Fireflies, sandboxes, and my mother’s small garden of snapdragons. I spent weekends at my grandparents’ house with my sisters, learning to ride a bike and reading stacks and stacks of books. This all happened in the heat and warmth of the summer. Curiously, I have no memories of autumn or winter.

My grandparents moved to Florida just before my fourth-grade year, and they brought their daughter, a single mother, and her three children with them. Growing up, we never lived more than ten minutes away from our grandparents, and I suspect that’s because, while yes, my mother was theoretically a fully functioning adult, she was also troubled in many ways and not actually a very responsible adult.

I spent my elementary school, junior high, high school, and college years in the same beachside town we moved to in 1985. I lived there until I was 28 years old. At this point, I moved from Florida and all my ties to the place. It was a bad move.

In 2011, the bad scene of that move to NJ culminated in my leaving to return to FL.

I initially landed in Orlando and lived there for about a year because that’s where my sister and best friend were, both having escaped Daytona’s skeezy orbit. But as luck would have it, I began dating someone who lived less than ten minutes from the house I grew up in, so back to Daytona, I went.

The timing worked out well because not long after that, my mother was diagnosed with cancer and died a year later. After that began my grandfather’s rapid decline, and my grandmother followed a few years later. Yvan and I lived together throughout this process, and we would have loved to move away (neither one of us sees ourselves as Florida people), but of course, I couldn’t leave the grandparents with no one else there to care for them.

Now the shoe is on the other foot. Two years ago, we finally left the Daytona area, but it was to move only two hours north (still in Florida, UGH) for the sake of being closer to Yvan’s aging parents. Having already been through this with my own family, I’m acutely aware of the bittersweet nature of this time. It’s a harsh truth that we’re essentially waiting for loved ones to pass before we can pursue our relocation dreams.

But this realization comes with a crucial understanding: we can’t put our lives on hold. We can’t live as if everything will be better somewhere else, sometime else. We have to find a way to live our best lives now, right where we are.

It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of “someday” thinking. Someday we’ll move. Someday, we’ll be happier. Someday, we’ll start living. But life is happening now, in this place, at this moment. Putting our lives on hold not only robs us of present joy but can lead to regret and resentment. So, how do we make peace with a place that doesn’t feel like home? How do we find contentment and purpose in a location that doesn’t resonate with our souls?

Cheesy as it may sound, I’m trying to create a little list. While pondering these strategies is a start, the real challenge lies in putting them into practice. Here’s how I’m trying (emphasis on trying) to implement each one:

Find beauty in your current environment:

🐊   Keep a “Stupid Sexy Florida Beauty” journal: Each day, I try to note one beautiful thing (okay, that’s a stretch, I’ll confess I have downsized this to “nice thing”) I’ve observed, no matter how small. Sometimes, it’s as simple as how the light filters through the lacy grey tangles of Spanish moss or, say, the vibrant colors of a sunset reflecting off a retention pond. Listen, we work with what we’ve got.
🐊 Explore local natural areas: Florida has some stunning springs and nature preserves. I’m making a list of nearby spots to visit, even if it’s just for a short walk or a brief looky-loo.
🐊 Embrace the night: Since daytime can be unbearable, I’m re-learning to appreciate Florida’s nighttime beauty. Taking a walk around the neighborhood to gaze at the stars or say hello to the moon, or sitting on the porch during a thunderstorm can be magical.

(Re)Create a sense of home:

🐊 Declutter and redesign: I’m gradually going through each room, removing items that don’t resonate with me anymore (goodbye, excess skulls) and introducing elements that do (hello, cozy Shire-inspired nooks).
🐊 Create a “home away from home” corner: I’m designating a small area in our house to represent my ideal place. It might be a reading corner with pieces from PNW artists or a New England-style writing nook. I don’t know what that means really, but it’s very autumnal. In my imagination, anywhere north of, say, North Carolina is this perpetual, enchanted October otherworld (which I know can’t be true because I lived in New Jersey…but how quickly we forget!)

Engage with local community and culture:

🐊 Start small:  I’m setting a modest goal of one social interaction every few months. Which doesn’t sound like much, but that is the best this introvert can do! We have actually made a few friends in the area (huzzah! and thank you to former Jax-resident Shana for the introductions!)
🐊 Explore local food scenes: Every place has its culinary gems. I’m making it a point to try one new local restaurant or food truck each month.
🐊 Virtual engagement: For days when leaving the house feels overwhelming, I’m looking into online communities centered around local interests or issues. Local gardening groups, knitting groups, whatever. I will probably never meet these people, but it would be nice to have some local-feeling camaraderie.

Plan trips to places that resonate:

🐊 Create a travel fund: We’re setting aside a small amount each month specifically for trips to places we love. And maybe eventually go on our honeymoon to Japan! Which…is probably going to be a lot like Florida, whoops.
🐊 Weekend getaway list: I’m compiling a list of drivable destinations (like Savannah) for quick escapes when we need a change of scenery.
🐊 Bring vacation home: After each trip, I’d like to incorporate an element of that place into our daily lives. It might be a new recipe, a decor item, or a habit we picked up.

Shift perspective through creativity:
🐊 Write fictional vignettes set in Florida: By imagining fantastic or intriguing scenarios in my current setting, I’m trying to see the place through new eyes.
🐊 Photography challenge: I’m challenging myself to take beautiful or interesting photos of my surroundings, encouraging me to look for beauty in unexpected places.

Practice gratitude:

🐊 Daily, I try to note one thing I’m grateful for about our current situation. It might be as simple as “I’m grateful for air conditioning, this ice-cold gin gimlet, and having cultivated a viciously grim sense of humor” on particularly hot days.

Implementing these strategies is an ongoing process, full of two steps forward and one step back. Some days, the only thing I manage is not cursing the sun. I know, lordy, how I know, that Florida isn’t all beaches and bikinis and whatnot; it’s actually kind of a weird, creepy place, and I know I am not the only weirdo here.

So this is less about loving every aspect of where you are and more about finding ways to thrive despite the challenges. It’s about creating pockets of joy and meaning, even when the overall environment doesn’t resonate with your soul. Pockets full of moss and lizards and little creamed-colored seashells that whisper terrible things in ancient marine languages when you hold it to your ear.

Making peace with place often requires a shift in perspective. Instead of focusing on what’s missing, we can choose to see the unique opportunities our current location provides. For me, living in Florida means I can be there for family during an important time. It means I can explore a state that many only dream of visiting. Moreover, this experience of feeling out of place is shaping me. It’s teaching me resilience, adaptability, and the art of finding joy in unexpected places. These lessons will (theoretically?) serve me well, no matter where I eventually end up.

While it’s natural to dream of other places, I recognize it’s crucial to live fully in the present, and by making peace with my current place, I open myself up to unexpected joys and growth opportunities. So yes, I may never fully embrace Florida’s sweltering, sticky, butt-and-boob-sweat summers. I may always feel a pull towards the charming small-town Stars Hollows or the Derry, Maines (just kidding about that one…sort of?) But for now, I’m here. And here, I am trying to find beauty, create meaning, and live fully. Home is much more than just a place. It’s the feelings we create, the life we build, and the perspective we choose.

My grandfather, and probably grandfathers the world over, used to say, “Wherever you go, there you are.” Even if I wind up in the perfect little cottage, high on a bluff, with a bunch of old-growth forests over the ridge and listening to the eerie tremolo of the loons from an ancient lake in my backyard (I am combining all the places I want to live into one extra amazing place here), I’ll still be me with all my wanting and yearning and seeking. Who knows, I might not be happy anywhere. But I am especially not going to be happy in a place where I am not. So I might as well try to make it happen in the place where I actually am.

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Many years ago, on this very blog, I wrote about my jewelry collection along with a current (at that time) wish-list of pieces of jewelry I was coveting. That post was dated for sometime in September of 2011, but I can assure you my love of all things shiny began much longer ago than that!

As a child, my imagination was captivated by visions of overflowing treasure chests, a fantasy undoubtedly born from the pages of storybooks and the flickering images on our TV screen. I recall being transfixed by the jewelry in every show and movie, my eyes drawn to the glittering accessories more than the plot or characters. The annual Miss Universe pageant was a particular delight – not for the competition itself, but for that moment when that ridiculously massive diamond(?)-studded tiara was placed upon the winner’s head, a coronation of sparkles that set my heart racing.

My fascination with jewelry and glamorous adornments wasn’t limited to real-world spectacles. The fictional realm provided just as much, if not more, fodder for my glittering dreams.

I was mesmerized by Glinda the Good Witch’s sparkling crown and wand, symbols of her benevolent magic. Princess Leia’s regal jewelry in the awards scene of Star Wars: A New Hope left me starry-eyed, dreaming of far-off galaxies where such elegance was commonplace. When not in her Wonder Woman attire, Diana Prince’s elegant looks captivated me, showing how jewelry could be both powerful and understated. I remember being glued to the TV during Susan Sarandon’s appearance on Masterpiece Theatre, drinking in every detail of her period-appropriate accessories. And who could forget Crystal Dreams Barbie? With her iridescent gown and crystal jewelry, she embodied the pinnacle of 80s glamour in miniature form, fueling my own crystal-centric fantasies.

The Sears catalog became my personal wish book, its pages dog-eared and worn as I revisited the jewelry section time and time again. And oh, the illustrations in my beloved copy of Aladdin! The Cave of Wonders, with its jeweled fruit trees, was a scene I’d lose myself in for hours, imagining the weight of those riches in my small hands. Actually–scratch that. My hands were 16 years old by the time I saw the animated movie, and I was every bit as enthralled ! But so what! Gimme all the sparkles now and forever!

Among my most treasured childhood memories is the ritual of exploring my grandmother’s jewelry box. It was a world unto itself, a miniature treasure trove that held endless fascination for me. The soft creak of its lid as I opened it, revealing tiers of compartments filled with glittering wonders. The musty, balsamic scent of Youth Dew perfume would waft up, an olfactory time capsule that instantly transported me to a realm of grown-up glamour. I’d spend hours trying on her collection of brooches, each one a miniature work of art in costume jewels and gilt metal. Strings of faux pearls would drape around my neck, clinking softly as I moved, while clip-on earrings pinched my earlobes with a delightful discomfort that made me feel impossibly sophisticated. These moments, playing dress-up with decades of collected memories and style, were more than just childhood fancy – they were my first real lessons in the power of jewelry to transform, to tell stories, and to connect generations.

As I grew, my tastes evolved, expanding far beyond the simple allure of sparkle and shine. The egg-shaped diamond rings that once seemed the height of sophistication gave way to more intricate, esoteric designs. I discovered the beauty in the unconventional, the strange, the downright occult – skulls adorned with crowns of thorns, talismanic claws clutching mystical stones, raw crystals seemingly plucked from the heart of some alien world. My collection began to resemble less a traditional jewelry box and more a cabinet of arcane curiosities.

Ouroboros rings coiled around my fingers, whispering secrets of eternity. Pendants bearing alchemical symbols and obscure runes nestled in the hollow of my throat, promising hidden knowledge. Earrings fashioned after rare deep-sea creatures dangled from my lobes, evoking the mysteries of the abyss. Each piece was a far cry from the princely jewels of my childhood fantasies, instead embodying a darker, more enigmatic allure.

Yet, there’s a cyclical nature to our tastes, isn’t there? Sometimes, I find myself longing for the overwrought melodrama of those childhood dreams. I’ll catch myself coveting a tiara so ostentatious it would make a soap opera diva blush, or a statement necklace so bold it could easily upstage its wearer. In these moments, I’m reminded of the little girl who dreamed of treasure chests overflowing with gems the size of a fist.

This pendulum swing between the esoteric and the extravagant, the subtle and the showy, has become a defining characteristic of my relationship with jewelry. It’s as if my collection is engaged in a never-ending masquerade ball, with each piece playing a role in an ever-unfolding drama of personal expression and transformation. More than just adornments, my jewelry has become a form of self-expression, each piece carefully chosen to reflect a facet of my personality or commemorate a moment in time.

After she died, a silver octopus pendant fashioned from a fork was found in my mother’s belongings wrapped for gift-giving. My sisters decided that she must have meant to give it to me as a Christmas gift. A weighty diamante four-leaf clover brooch with pearls at the center sits in my jewelry cabinet. It belonged to my grandmother; it was one of the very pieces from the jewelry box I mentioned above. But I can never seem to find the occasion to wear it.  A goddess smiles enigmatically, carved from the depths of a golden moon. This is a necklace I purchased for myself after I wrote my third book.

The emotional resonance of jewelry continues to surprise me. A simple charm can transport me back in time, while a new acquisition can fill me with a sense of possibility for the future. Each piece in my collection tells a story, whether it’s the tale of where it came from, who gave it to me, or what it represents in my personal journey. As my collection grew, so did my appreciation for the deeper meanings behind each piece. Jewelry, I’ve come to understand, is far more than decoration. It’s a form of symbolic language, a way to communicate beliefs and aspirations, and even to provide protection.

The esoteric symbols that now populate my collection – the all-seeing eyes, the protective hamsa hands, the intricate sacred geometry – each carry a weight of meaning that goes beyond aesthetics. These pieces have become talismans, objects imbued with significance and power. On days when I need an extra boost of courage, I might reach for my arrow necklace, a reminder to stay focused and move forward. When seeking clarity, my labradorite ring becomes a touchstone, its flashes of blue-green light seeming to illuminate my thoughts.

This idea of jewelry as a metaphysical shield has become increasingly important to me. In a world that can often feel chaotic and overwhelming, there’s comfort in adorning oneself with objects that feel like talismanic bulwarks against negative energies. My skull ring, far from being macabre, serves as a memento mori, a reminder to live fully and authentically. The weight of a substantial cuff bracelet can feel grounding, a barrier between myself and the world when I need that extra layer of security. The concept of jewelry as talisman is ancient, spanning cultures and centuries. From Egyptian scarabs to Victorian mourning jewelry, humans have long invested these small, wearable objects with great power. In embracing this tradition, I feel connected to a long line of individuals who have found strength, comfort, and identity in their adornments.

Beyond the visual allure, there’s an intimate, tactile dimension to jewelry that often goes unspoken. The weight of a substantial pendant against my chest, the cool touch of metal warming to my skin, the gentle clinking of bangles on my wrist – these sensations ground me in the present moment, a constant, subtle reminder of adornment and intention. I find myself absently tracing the contours of a ring while deep in thought, the familiar ridges and smooth surfaces becoming a form of tangible meditation. There’s a unique pleasure in the way different materials interact with the senses: the soft, warm glow of amber, the cool, liquid feel of pearls, the sharp facets of a cut crystal. Even the act of putting on jewelry becomes a ritual, a moment of mindfulness as I fasten a clasp or slip a ring onto my finger. Yet, for all this weighty symbolism, there remains in me that child who simply delighted in beautiful things. The enduring allure of “treasures” persists, speaking to something fundamental in human nature. We are drawn to that which glitters and shines, to objects that seem to capture light and transform it into something magical.

My passion for jewelry has profoundly influenced how I perceive the world, infusing everyday experiences with an unexpected sparkle. I’ve come to see the jewel-like qualities in nature and everyday objects, finding gems where others might see mere produce. The glossy, deep purple skin of an eggplant reminds me of polished amethyst, its curves mimicking the smooth cabochons in my favorite rings. Strawberries, with their vibrant red hue and seed-studded surface, evoke images of intricately worked rubies. This jewelry-tinted lens extends beyond the visual realm, coloring my other senses in surprising ways. In the world of perfumery, I often find myself describing scents in gemstone terms – this fragrance smells “amethystine,” with deep, purple notes of lavender and wine; that one has an “emerald” quality, fresh and verdant like newly unfurled leaves.

As I look at my collection now, arranged on my dresser top at eye level, heaped and draped in dishes and trays, and tucked away into several ornate little boxes, I’m struck by how it embodies both change and constancy. The specific pieces may be different from what I once dreamed of, but the joy they bring – that feeling of wonder and delight – remains unchanged from when I first pored over those catalog pages.

In many ways, my jewelry collection has become my own personal Cave of Wonders. Each piece, whether a finely crafted artisanal item or a quirky flea market find, is a treasure in its own right. They are artifacts of my journey, markers of my growth, and yes, still objects of beauty that make my heart sing just as they did when I was young. My love for jewelry has been a constant companion, evolving as I have, reflecting my growth and changing perspectives. From the imaginary treasure chests of my childhood to the carefully curated collection of my adulthood, it’s been a journey marked by sparkle, significance, and self-discovery.

As I alluded to in a post last week, as I reflect on this lifelong fascination, I realize that my relationship with jewelry is just one of many threads that have woven the tapestry of who I am today. After two decades of blogging, I find myself drawn to exploring these origin stories – the experiences, passions, and influences that have shaped me.

In the grand scheme of things, I may be less than a nobody. Yet, I can’t help but envision a future where someone stumbles upon an old perfume review I’ve written or finds one of my books in a dusty corner of a used bookstore and thinks, “Hey, this person seems really interesting. I wonder what they were like?” It’s a small hope, perhaps, but isn’t that a fundamentally human desire? To leave behind some essence of ourselves, some breadcrumbs for future curious souls to follow?

Who doesn’t like to tell the story of who they are? Who doesn’t, in some small way, want to be known and understood? These origin stories – of my love for jewelry, my fascination with scent, my adventures in cooking and art – they’re my way of saying “This is who I am. This is what shaped me.”

It eventually shaped me into a ghoul who loves jewels (which, in my imagination, looks a bit like the imagery of Maria Germanova below!) Read more on my fascination with her here and here and here!

So, dear future reader (if you exist), consider this the beginning of a trail. In the coming weeks and months, I’ll be delving into other formative fascinations and pivotal moments in my life. From my early encounters with scary terrors to my first sprays of perfume, from a childhood love of all things “flowerdy” to adult adventures in cooking – each of these stories has contributed to the person I’ve become and the way I see the world. I invite you – whether you’re reading this hot off the press or years down the line – to join me on this journey of reflection and rediscovery in unearthing these defining experiences and their resulting passions.  And I hope you’ll share yours as well along the way!

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