A hundred year soul

Old furniture is heavy. It has thick metal hardware, solid construction, and it is made of dense, slow-growing varieties of wood. When something is heavy, it must be moved deliberately. Moving heavy things requires purpose, planning, analysis, and care. A piece of heavy furniture can not be flippantly discarded in an alley. It can not be chucked out the back door next to the dumpster. It can’t even be brought with you without intention, you have to really want for it to come along. Everything that is inherited brings with it the weight of being chosen over and over again to keep coming along, to keep being a part of the family, and each time resources were dedicated to making sure it made the journey. 

                                           

In Japanese folklore, Tsukumogami is the concept that regular household objects, once they have reached one hundred years of age, are endowed with a soul. Acts of wastefulness are therefore tantamount to a display of disrespect, as if you had thrown away a living, breathing human being. These items have purpose as well as usefulness, an inherent work ethic, and individual integrity. When an object is broken and discarded, it is in a way ‘dishonored’ for having failed to continue serving its intended purpose in perpetuity. 

Japan, an island with finite physical space and resources, has an interest in encouraging thrift. It serves both a cultural purpose, by passing down items that have intrinsic value within a family, and a sustainability one, by limiting the number of items produced using scarce raw materials. But waste can be curbed without the need to create within an object a distinct emotional entity and animating it with self esteem and shame. Sometimes, the souls are said to be mischievous. Rarely are they mean-spirited, but even the sweetest wardrobes can have sour days. As in, "I stubbed my toe on grandma's dresser again, she always does that." The imperative to care for an heirloom becomes in a way a vessel for ancestor worship, as the soul begins to take on a once familiar set of traits.

Each February on the streets of Tokyo, kimono-clad women at the Hari Kuyo festival gently retire their sewing needles into a large block of tofu, symbolically wrapping them in tenderness in their twilight days. The soft pincushion is meant to be a gentle farewell, as well as an overture of appreciation for the needle’s many years of dedicated service in the production of fine clothing. It is also said that this "Festival of Broken Needles" reflects the quiet stoicism with which Japanese housewives carry their own burdens. A sewing needle may be the single visual focal point of a lifetime of sorrow, silent sadness put to use through household chores. When a needle breaks, it is not just a broken tool, but a wounded friend deserving of a memorial service. 

But not all damaged things are retired. 

The art of kintsukuroi, where broken pottery is mended with gold, provides a conspicuous reminder that a bowl has been given a new life. Made more valuable for having been given another chance, both the damage, and the repair, weave additional dimensions into the story of a simple dish. The veins of gold are a stark reminder that the bowl has a life, a history, and a memory. 
                                           

“At least I know it’s going to a good home.”

‘Ok,’ I thought to myself, ‘now I definitely can’t sell it.” 

I packed a small walnut coffee table neatly into the truck bed with blankets, strapped it down with bungee cords and netting, and gently pulled out of the driveway, smiling and waving goodbye to a stranger. This wasn’t the first time I had been unexpectedly burdened with the responsibility to care for a table. It also wasn’t the first time someone casually spoke about being in the middle of emotional turmoil, having finally arrived at the decision to part with these last few physical remnants of their mother, grandmother, or spouse. Sometimes the death was recent; more often, it had taken months or even years to arrive at the decision to sell something, let alone put a price tag on it. Occasionally the release seemed cathartic for them, a way of pushing past the painful fog and finally letting go. These people spoke deliberately, their tone had a hint of optimism. They had made their peace, it was time to say goodbye. Others seemed to study me carrying a piece down the driveway as though I was instead holding the newly orphaned family dog, anxious and immediately regretful. 

 I don’t usually ask much about an item when I go pick it up. But nine times out of ten, they will tell me anyway. 

“Yeah, I just got around to selling some of the stuff from my mother in law’s house, you know she lived with us for a while when her health got bad. We had all this in storage for years. She loved this sewing machine so much; she would tell me all the time about how they don’t make clothes the way they used to anymore, everything just falls apart. She would get so frustrated when I would tell her I was taking something to the tailor, she’d huff about how before she got arthritis she could have done that all for me and for less than they charge now, and it would have been better made too.” They always smile at this little memory, laugh a little, and then frown. 

Most people aren't in sales, but this transaction hinges on their ability to sell me on this piece of furniture. Being unfamiliar with the bells and whistles of a thing they didn't buy themselves, almost everyone reverts to explaining the personal significance, why I should want something they care so much about.

 So I listen. 

 “We just had it serviced a few months back, I think we have the receipt in here somewhere…yeah, here it is. The guy said it was in great shape for its age so you shouldn’t have any issues with it at all. She had it wired so you could use the, what’s it called, the little foot pedal instead of having to run it manually. The plug in is in the back, we can bring it inside and plug it in for you so you know it works, if you want.” 

 No, that’s alright. I’m sure it’ll be fine. 

“So, are you going to take sewing classes or...do you know…what are you going to do with it?” 

 I explain that my grandmother was a seamstress, I learned as a kid, and I am tired, as her mother in law was, of paying people to do alterations for me. But any story would do in this situation. 

 “Ah, that’s great!" The relief is palpable. "Well, we are just so happy to see it go to a good home, it’s really such a great machine and we just don’t have anything to use it for anymore, but we couldn’t just throw it away.” 

Satisfied with my intentions, I’m usually helped to my car and thanked for being on time.