Stuff. Things. Belongings. I am a firm believer in collecting experiences not things, and yet in the aftermath of the theft of my Jewellery I feel hollowed out, invaded and berefit. Emotions which disprove a philosophy I have lived by my entire life.
I consider it a particular kind of insecurity and narcissism to collect items. A celebrity model of success that has little in common with happiness. A boastful badge of achievements that don’t correlate in the slightest to ones sense of self-worth. I pride myself on having a nice home, I paint it and make curtains and buy pretty things. I walk around it and feel proud of the space I have created. I feel that the bright colours characterise my personality, the photos of Family, and pets scattered about the house represent my heart, the memorabilia from my travels throughout the globe speak of my history. But my items aren’t expensive, my house is a painting of my past and hopes for my future rather than a pallet of dollars signs.
‘Experiences, not things', I'd tell people, ‘that is the way to live your life' Yet this invasion has robbed me of my sense of smug superiority, it appears that these things, these pretty baubles were impossibly important to me. I am struck with the too-late realisation that many things in our lives are more than just items. They are a collection of who we are.
Jewellery, real jewellery doesn’t come easily to us all, it is collected over many years. It comes to us on special occasions and from people who are dear to us. My stolen jewels included birthday presents from my 16th/18th 21st and 30th birthdays. A collection of charms that my dad bought me over the years. The items my Grandmother gave me on her death bed. Her legacy to me. It is this, my grandmother's items that hurt the most. I had my grandfathers signet ring, my aunties engagement ring, my great grandmothers gold chain. Things that my grandmother had held on to and cherished for nearly a century. Some were inscribed; notes from my grandfather to my grandmother back in the 40’s declaring his love for her. The jewels are items that transcend any monetary value. They chart my family history, my lineage; from the days when my grandfather met my grandmother and their wonderful 40+ years of romance until he passed away. When my grandmother passed on her cherished possessions to me, she entrusted me to continue the family story. To keep her name and my grandfather's name alive. This you see is the power of things. The power to keep memories alive, to keep people alive. To remember who we are and where we came from.
Not everyone is lucky enough to be the recipient of family jewellery, but as I look around the house I realise other less obvious objects are important to me. The mugs my mother bought me. The tiny koala bear that my grandma bought me back from Australia when I was 5. The photograph of my brothers and I when I was little. The box of love letters and birthday cards that my husband has sent me over the 17 years of our relationship. The personal attachment I have to all these things is symbolic of the love I have for the people for whom they represent.
I can only imagine that the people who stole my grandmother's engagement ring, and her husband's signet ring have little understanding of the importance of what they hold in their hands. In the same way that they will never understand how they reached into my heart and tarnished the last memories I have of my grandma. How I feel I have let her down. They won't understand how guilty I feel. So guilty that I felt I had to apologise to my dad for losing his fathers ring and his mothers jewellery.
They also won't understand how violated I feel. It was an inside job. The person who did this was a member of my household, someone who knows me. Someone who would have had an idea of how much it would hurt me. Someone I trusted. When they walked into my bedroom and stole from the heart of my home they invaded my sanctuary, my safe space. They degraded the place where I sleep at night, where I hold my sick children, where I write these blogs. They sat in my home and took my special things and managed to look me in the eye day after day after they did it. I don't know what kind of person does that. I feel sick that that person has been in my house.
The truth is that experiences aren’t everything. Life is a memory box and you need people to share it with and people to pass on those experiences to. Our little trinkets preserve those memories for the future generation so that they learn who their ancestors were. Our possessions allow for a narrative between families, they are the doorway to sharing stories that might otherwise be forgotten. Many times my daughter and I have poured over my jewellery box as I told her about relatives she will never meet. When they stole my treasured possessions they didn't just steal a necklace or an engagement ring they stole our family history, our memories and part of my family's place in time. This is a world where families are fractured, the family home is almost nonexistent and relationships are maintained online. The value of having tactile items to hold is invaluable. In future generations my children's grandchildren could still run their fingers over inscriptions of love, to wonder at the places these items had visited, the stories behind them the people who wore them.
At the end of the day I am thankful, we are all safe, no one was hurt. People are the most important thing in the world. All the possessions and fantastic experiences are worthless without someone to share them with. Keep your valuables close but keep your loved ones closer.
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