assigning meaning to stuff

I love to assign meaning to things. Butterflies, birds, pieces of paper I find on the boulevard. So this morning while the thunder rumbled and the lightning flashed, I shopped on Etsy for a few things.



The St. Therese medal is from France circa 1920. (Notice it is on sale.) I'm hoping it's small enough to attach to my silver bracelet. On the back, it says in French, I want to spend my heaven doing good on earth. I wish it said I want to spend my heaven having fun on earth but I suppose those would not be the words of a saint.

The angel wing is from a woman in Oregon who supplied me with my triple moon goddess and my spiral heart. I love her tiny sterling charms.

The other night, I tossed a shirt onto a pile of clothes on top of my jewelry chest and the whole mess went to the floor. I looked at it in wonder. This is how I am so I don't know why I was surprised but in the words of my friend, Karen, I don't remember making such a goddam mess.

Yesterday I gathered up all the piles, sorted and folded, and got things put away. I had four pairs of pajamas in four different places around the room. All clean, all folded.

I had an email from Karen this morning which said, and I will quote because I know she won't mind: My room looks like a whore-house changing area for quickies - clothes,undies, pjs, shoes slung everywhere over furniture, on the floor across the bed and hanging off tables, chairs, and even the television. WTF??? I don't even remember making such a goddamned mess.

I laughed out loud, then wrote her a note to say it was further evidence we were meant to be soul sisters.

Who knew that making such a clothing mess would be another event to which I assign great meaning.

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