Dear Loretta
My mother once counted up the times she had moved in her life. From birth to where she currently was—San Diego, CA she’d moved 83 times.
83 times. To most, this would be an unsettling thing; so much change, having to begin over each time, and make new connections. For her, it was part of her DNA. Her parents (my grandparents) had been fiercely independent and resilient people. They built a successful but simple life from nothing but hard work and determination. For them, setting up a home was more function than form. For my mom, it was taking all those experiences, landscapes, vistas, and cultures, different from her own, and surrounding herself with the memories.
It was in her homes that I learned the beauty of living in a space surrounded by, not just the objects themselves, but what they represented in the timeline of your life. For her, and now myself and Dylan, we find that living with objects that remind you of people or places helps you remember who you are. It pulls up the lessons, beautiful and painful, that define how you fit into the world.
I think it’s a powerful to feel grounded in your space. Free in your space. Safe in your space. Most importantly, know that you are developing relationships there, with yourself, others, and the physical environment surrounding you.
She was unbelievably tuned into the frequency of others. She was a natural relationship builder. She could see people and make them feel seen. Often she was approached by strangers, just to talk about their “story.” Those stories stayed with her—part of her collection—just like the material things in her homes.
She talked to me from a very young age about her life story. She wanted me to know where she came from and where I came from. It was like a religion to her—knowing as much about the people that came before her as possible. It brought her a sense of self-awareness and through the tragedies, kindness. She had complete internal peace, which she opened up to everyone around her. Her intuition was uncanny. She understood how spaces, places, and people held energy.
From her late twenties, she, and her uncle Wilder, would correspond regarding the family genealogy. She poured over historical documents, gathered old photos, and talked to aging relatives. She was looking for “her story,” the story that asked the question “does where you come from make you who you are?”
Through this exploration, her love of cultural anthropology turned into poetry. She wrote about scenes from her grandparents farm, deep wells where her grandmother drew water, and the volatile relationship of her parents. Cultural Anthropology became ingrained in her, shaping the rest of her life, career, and love of the world. She came to the conclusion that finding what you love lets you find yourself, and often times you must search your past to understand your present.
She always told me to “use your gifts and talents,” which at the time, was brilliant to us, and a touchstone for all of our decisions. But, what she really taught us was how to live an authentic life wrapped around objects, libraries, and collections. That a well-collected life can remind you, everyday, that beauty in all forms is the most important thing.
Christie
