Notes: Objects as mementos that link to meaning. Totems. Tokens. Emblems.

Inspiration: ‘Inception’ movie.

An Ode to Mementos: the Containers of Memory.  

As I sip my tea, I look down into the mug, pleading the very water to give me warmth and show me something like a witch at her crystal ball. I’m listless and in desperate need of entertainment. Loose jasmine petals stare at me as they float the surface, bobbing up and down contentedly, swirling around in loops like some happy retirees on some lazy river. 

The tea was given to me by a dear friend right before I left for my tierra. Every time I drink it, I think of her. It elicits memories of her dulce voice. I can almost smell the perfume she wears, conjuring up an image of her in my mind—elegantly dressed, probably robed in white garment; flowing blonde hair; lipsticked lips; classy, with a thin cigarette held loosely in her soft hand: my friend who is all heart. I’m reminded of the nurture and the care that we have cultivated into our friendship. Her real name is Jasmine which adds another silky layer of significance. It carries emotion and links to memories shared, of connection exchanged. All of this comes to mind simply by looking at some seemingly random loose leaf jasmine tea blossoms. 

Little does one know how they are linked to memories and hold great meaning unique to me. Anyone else might see the very same blossoms and think ‘what pretty tea’ or have a completely different memory altogether. Maybe it conjures up a time of someone’s grandma making them a cup when they were young and recalling stories of her boisterous youth. Maybe it reminds one of the time they scalded their tongue on tea so hot, that they decided never to drink the damned thing again. Maybe a memory surfaces of a warm drink shared on a first date. The very same object can be different things to different people, representing various unrelated meanings. The possibilities and combinations are infinite.

As I sit admiring the carefree, cozy blossoms, I think about these external representations, these symbols that contain meaning that is specific to the wielder. Totems, tokens, keepsakes, mementos, reminders, relics—all signs, all faces masking something deeper, a piece of context that is often difficult to put an exact finger on. 

Mementos are visible and tangible representations of memories that often hold meaning and kindle feeling. They are physical objects that can be touched, smelled, tasted and held close to one’s heart. Sometimes, they can be hung in plain sight or tucked away in a chest of drawers—hidden from curious eyes with intimacy intact. A token can be wrapped around one’s neck or even a finger, preserving memory. Now and then, when a totem is seen or touched, the wielder can be transported to a different time in their life almost as if a portal had been opened. It is a key that grants access to another place in space or time. I think of my high school diploma, that immediately takes me back to school times and the awkward adolescent I was growing up. Perhaps, it is a ring that reminds one of a previous marriage or a piece of art bought on a memorable trip to Brazil. It can be the visible reminder that serves as proof that an event actually happened. Think plane ticket, invitation, festival bracelet, or photograph. Whatever it is, we all have these totems that have the power to take us away, away from the present and back to a particular time previously lived whether happy, sorrowful, or both.

On the other hand, rather than transporting us, a totem can be the very thing that brings us back to reality, back to the now. It can serve as the pinch, reminding us we’re really here, in this moment. There are times that we feel we’re floating away like a weightless plastic bag in the wind. It is the physical symbol that guides us gently down to the ground like a plane landing from a long flight. Like a steel peg that holds down a flapping tent, the symbol can be the cold water to wake us from our dream. Maybe we’ve stayed too long in the past, in our memories, in our dreams that we need to be brought back to the current story thread. Maybe it’s a living symbol like a person who is currently in your life, one that carries weighty meaning for you now. It’s possible they won’t be in your life forever, but they point you to here. They help you appreciate what you can enjoy today.   

Together, different totems are what thread the stitches of our story. They are the beads on our lifeline, serving as markers that remind us of who we are—a medal, a certificate of hard work, an album of loved ones and cherished family members, a recipe book, coloured pencils, a soup pot…the list is limitless. 

Maybe that’s why losing one’s house to a fire is so painful because it wipes away the physical echoes of who we are. Gone are the photos tracing back to our childhood, gone are the baseball trophies that told us we were great at something, gone is the antique armchair that has passed down generations, gone are the letters from an old flame…I wonder if the reason that these physical symbols are so important to us is that they help tell our story. They remind us of who we used to be, who we’ve become—containers holding weighted memory and tangible meaning. In a way, they are like horcruxes. We’ve put different parts of ourselves into distinct objects. We feel if we lose them, then we’ve lost a core piece of our identity that can no longer be shared with others, let alone ourselves. Of course, identity goes beyond these physical representations, but still the loss of them can be gut-wrenching.   

Taking my tea into my room, I’m struck by the symbols that surround me, reminding me of who I am. In the corner nearest the door, lies a wheeled clothing rack displaying some of my favourite clothes weaving stories. It is home to the bright yellow blazer that whenever I wear it, I feel both professional and radiant. Or the long grey dress that is comfortable, easy to dress up or down and also makes me feel like a woman when I wear it. Next to my nightstand on the wall are stuck five photos from my past. In one, I’m but a small girl—shy and withdrawn—between  my smiling parents. In another, I’m beaming up at the camera man while I don a hat that says Happy New Year 2000, proof I was alive then, proof of my existence on this earth, proof of festivity. I suppose if I were to lose my memory, I would look to these pictures for reference and use them to figure out what sort of girl I was. 

Atop the bureau, lies some euro notes, serving as proof I’ve been outside my homeland. Certain mementos hold more memory and weight than others. Beside the notes, lies a pink fan that is sprinkled with periwinkled shapes of different animals. One of my students in Spain gifted it to me and I take it wherever I go. It’s tagged along for every concert, every part, every gathering. It’s both cooled me down and allowed me to cool off others, serving me in the same way a lighter does for smokers. I’ve met many people and had many conversations just by carrying this fan, that is now very stained, around. The fan serves as a token for who I am and who I want to continue being, serving others and myself by bringing cool wind in the heat. Next to it, lies a sturdy silver ring with a zigzagged line etched around the entire band. It was my mom’s. When I wear it, I feel we are close. She made it in high school and carried it with her all these years. It makes me  think of symbols that are passed down through generations, further proof of existence, a gentle way of saying, ‘we were here’. Maybe I’ll give it to my child and continue the trend. 

Moving to the bed, nestled inside a notebook of mine, lies a copper fountain pen gifted me by my dad. It is small and light, easy to carry and has allowed me to write and wrestle with my own thoughts on paper. The pen is the writer’s weapon and wand. This one in particular reminds me of my dad and his favorite color which is a dark midnight blue—the colour of the ink that flows from the pen’s nib. It reminds me of the gift it is to bleed on a page, bleeding sorrow, bleeding joy. The pen is beautiful and dear. It’s traveled to Italy, Spain, Morocco, India, Korea—sitting on benches, strewn on a napkin at a restaurant, nestled between pages of a book. On many a page it’s bled, weeping warm, inky tears and leaving behind giant stains later turned into flowers. This pen has written heartache and woe, it’s savoured times cherished and rejoiced in friends dear to the heart. In many ways, this pen has saved me at different points of my existence. It carries meaning while also continuing to create it—a more refined point. 

I step back to view all of the totems mentioned and the room swirls with meaning. They are but a few that represent different parts of me. Not only do they serve as an external portrayal of myself, but also contain memories of other people, of places, of things thought and things felt—sustaining the weight of significance. They transport us to a different time, a different part of ourselves, sometimes it feels like they take us to another life that we lived altogether. 

Pondering, my fingers find their way to the chain around my neck and fondle fondly. A shell pendant dangles from the base. I strum the totem that reminds me of the five week adventure I met on the Camino de Santiago, trekking five hundred miles, over hill and valley, over mountain and glen. It transports me to a time when I felt happy, light, free, filled with purpose and hope. There, I encountered nature daily, carrying my pack, travelling on foot and breaking bread with other pilgrims who were also on the trail. There, I found love. There, I found peace. There, I found home. All of it—the sounds, the scents, the tastes, the textures, the conversation, the muscle ache and blisters, the tears shed, the birds, the flowers—all of it, floods back when I feel the shell on my skin, calling me back. It is a piece of the memory, a totem of tribute to this beautiful time. All of the recollections are stored in this small piece of metal acquired in Santiago. 

It’s a visual way of preserving the memory, a protest against forgetting what happened, of the pain I felt and let go and the growth I experienced and cherish. Some might see but a shell, but maybe to them it is only that, whereas I have the context. And therein lies the totem’s true power. It contains the story. It carries the meaning. A single tear softly glides out sinking back into flesh, like a warm hug on my cheek, drawing out a smile as I carry on with my day.