The Intimacy of Inanimacy (How to Listen to the Objects Around Us)

"Everything sings, the whole universe and all other universes. It's in our genes, see, not just in our ears." - Bryan Islip

Everything sings. What a wonderful notion. I am here to tell you that the innumerous inanimate objects in your dwelling place may be still, but they are not silent. There is a way to catch them in the act of being alive, to truly listen to them. To hear it, we must listen beyond the function of our ears, as Islip says above. And I'm going to teach you how.

Sitting at my desk around noon on a late summer weekday, I lean to my left and reach down into a knit bag that is sitting lazily on the floor with its top zipper open. A grunt escapes me as I bend, its more like the creaking groan of an old tree in the wind. I really need to stretch more. With my hand in the bag, I begin to feel around the darkness of the woven container. I don't know what I'm looking for, exactly. Just something to hold. Inspiration perhaps. Motion. A spark.

I've been traveling recently, so I do know that there is a random assortment of things in the bag that will scratch the present itch--what some would call a "compulsion", to simply fiddle with a little object while my mind hopefully comes back from the abyss it has wondered into, the abyss is it so prone to explore, with something good, maybe even something productive. My fingers find one small treasure and I remove it from the bag to place it on my desk. I do this three times.

The three new additions to my workspace include a silver and brass Peruvian coin, one-fourth of a candle made of beeswax, and a seashell, pearlescent on the inside, with rough bumps on the pink-hued ridges along its curving outer facade. I've scored. Quickly reorienting to their fresh and much brighter surroundings, my new work companions begin speaking excitedly and I have to raise a hand in protest to say, "Not all at once! One at a time, please". The three-part cacophony slowly subdues with equal parts irk and embarrassment. With order in place, I begin by giving the seashell an audience, the stage being the palm of my hand. I smile as my thumb unconsciously traces its edges while it begins to tell me its stories.

Movies such as Brave Little Toaster, Beauty and the Beast, and Toy Story, all speak to the timeless mythological notion that the inanimate objects around us are secretly alive and imbued with unique personalities. As with all good stories, there is some truth to this. Now, at this point the left hemisphere of your brain (which is concerned with concrete logic, practicality, and mechanistic functions) may be attempting to hijack your thought processes with a certain level of cynicism. These objects don't have brains, or mouths, how can they talk? Rest assured my left-brained friends, you are about to discover some magic that will fill even the most skeptically rational empiricists among you with a sense of child-like wonder.

And that is where we shall begin, the magic sense of child-like wonder.

I am a licensed therapist who has been trained in the use of sandtray therapy - a type of non-verbal play therapy that involves the use of a tray of sand and the subjective arrangement of a number of objects and figurines to create a scene which acts as an expression of one's inner world. This display of element and symbol invites the inner, child-like experience of an individual to be witnessed by the loving presence of the therapist.

The sandtray process begins with the clients familiarizing themselves with the sand. Scooping it up in their hands, letting it slide through the cracks of their fingers back into the tray. Feeling it. Being with it. Next, there is the selection of objects and figurines. These are typically found on a number of shelves or bookcases, and the client will have to decide which figurines belong in their sandtray. This step takes some time, as it involves the deeper process of listening within, and is the step that we will focus on now.

If you ever went toy shopping as a child, you are familiar with the selection process. Browsing up and down the aisles, waiting to find the perfect toy to take home and become a part of your play, a part of your life. If you can, think back on those moments and tune into the inner experience you had when you found "the toy". What was it that drew you to it? What was it that spoke to you? An unshakeable feeling? A small voice, perhaps? Now, I'm not saying the toy called to you by way of a verbal shout or some sort of subconscious ventriloquy. No. The small voice that spoke to you was your own.

Islip was right when he said, "It's in our genes, see, not just in our ears." It's the inner voice, the one as deep inside of us as our very genes, that acts as a translator between external objects and our subconscious mind, that allows us to hear what the objects around us are saying. The inner voice is what allows us to be intimate with the inanimate.

So, what is the inner voice? It doesn't typically speak with words per se (if only it were that easy!). The inner voice speaks through all five sensations, through memories and images. It comes from the place of intuition, knowingness, flow state, "spidey-sense". It lives in the depths of the subconscious, in the belly-brains of our bodies. It is the voice of your inner child.

I was in the office one day, in a session with a client of mine when I noticed that they kept glancing to their left during our conversation, toward the bookcase full of objects and figurines. I paused the conversation and invited them to go over to the bookcase and pick one of them out. At this, my client smiled rather sheepishly and said that they had noticed a particular figurine as soon as they walked in and sat down, and for some reason, they could not stop looking over at it as our session had begun. With the figurine now in my client's hands, we spent the remainder of our time together figuring out why this was.

As my client inspected it thoroughly, moving it from hand to hand, they began to share possibly related memories and moments of childhood, symbols and themes of relevant importance, and when further prompted, what their body was feeling in the present moment as they held the figure and explored their inner experience. Many beautiful doors were opened then, all due to the presence of the figurine. It was speaking to my client through evocations.

The same can happen for us. By noticing an object that makes us double take, by holding such an object that has captured our attention momentarily, we can listen to it by expanding our awareness to sensations, emotions, memories and surfacing images (a flutter in the stomach, a tingling in the hand or arm, a sudden warmth or feeling of sadness, anger, joy, an unbidden smile, a memory of childhood or something more recent, images from a television show, movie or dream).

They may not seem related whatsoever, but if you step further in to the incoming river of evocation, you will see that they actually are related because they are happening in the here and now. The present moment is what connects the "voice" of the object to your translation of what it is saying.

If you'll notice, the inner voice of young children is not yet buried beneath the ill-fitting layers of the world telling them who and how they should be. They are able to quickly discern the deeper knowingness of things, and they respond by way of play - a dynamic form of expression that happens always in the present moment, where the rules change just as quickly as they are created, and where objects come alive and speak aloud.

Now that you remember how to listen to the objects around you by tuning into your body and subconscious mind, let us take a different track, because there are some things we should know about the little objects around us.

A quick scan of the room I'm currently writing from leaves me with a handful of various objects to mention. A wooden stool, a feather, several old books, an incense holder, a phone charger, a deck of cards, a roll of tape, a notebook, a camera, a glass lamp, a speaker, a blanket and a wide brim hat. Just to name a few. Each of these objects, when picked up and listened to with childlike wonder, could tell me a story.

There is an exchange that takes place whenever you pick up a thing. The energy elicited by the object and the energy elicited by your response. Objects can hold this energy, just as you can.

There's an antique store here in Austin, Texas called Uncommon Objects. Stepping inside of this store feels like walking into the shared attic of three different museums across time and space. Sculptures of tin and wood and ceramic depicting gods and goddesses and grandparents, centuries old silverware and cutlery, dyed fabrics of indigo and lapis lazuli, rings and necklaces and molded jewelry with every imaginable stone, trinkets and paintings and treasure chests, literal treasure chests with skeleton keys still attached by a bit of string and tape. A labyrinth. A library. A collection of thousands of stories, moments and memories from thousands of lives. It is one of my favorite places to go and practice how to listen, how to feel, how to become aware of my energy in relation to the energy of objects and others. How to be with my inner voice.

I believe that all objects, whether intricately made or cheaply, are alive. Some are sleeping, some are awake, some want to be picked up and moved, some don't, some are holding onto the touch of grief, or anger, silliness or joy. Most I would say are full of joy. Full of the delight of being created. You will soon be able to tell. Whatever energy, emotion, or conscious intent they have been so imbued with is unique to them. If we listen, we can hear it all.

We have the ability to discern this to commune with the every day objects around us, to listen to them, to each other, to ourselves. This practice of listening can be applied to people, to animals, to trees and plants. It is a practice of knowing, and unknowing. To be present in that place between which Rumi spoke of. I think that is my favorite thing to be reminded of by a little object. A place that is deeply familiar, yet completely mysterious. I want to spend more time there. With myself. With the things that I hold.

I hope you have an Uncommon Objects local to you. Perhaps just a mom and pop antique shop. After reading this, if you feel so inspired, it could be well worth a visit. But I recommend starting with your treasures, your trinkets, your thumbtacks and your tokens.

I wish you the grandest of wonders for your inner child as you hopefully apply this art to your day to day life, as you touch your desk with reverence, close your eyes, and listen. Safe travels, friends. I leave you with this poem:

"Ode to Things" by Pablo Neruda

I have a crazy love of things

I like pliers and scissors

I love

cups,

rings, and bowls -

not to speak, of course,

of hats,

I love

all things,

not just

the grandest,

also

the infinitely

small -

thimbles, spurs,

plates,

and flower vases,

Oh yes,

the planet

is sublime!

It's full of

pipes

weaving

hand-held

through tobacco smoke,

and keys

and salt shakers -

everything,

I mean,

that is made

by the hand of man, every little thing

shapely shoes,

and fabric,

and each new

bloodless birth

of gold,

eyeglasses,

carpenter's nails,

brushes,

clocks, compasses,

coins and the so-soft

softness of chairs.

Mankind has

built

oh so many perfect

things!

Built them of wool

and of wood,

of glass and

of rope;

remarkable

tables,

ships, and stairways.

I love

all

things,

not because they are

passionate or sweet-smelling

but because,

I don't know,

because the ocean is yours,

and mine:

these buttons

and wheels

and little forgotten treasures,

fans upon

whose feathers

love has scattered

its blossoms,

glasses, knives and

scissors -

all bear

the trace

of someone's fingers

on their handle or surface,

the trace of a distant hand

lost

in the depths of forgetfulness

I pause in houses,

streets and

elevators,

touching things,

identifying objects

that I secretly covet:

this one because it rings,

that one because

it's as soft

as the softness of a woman's hip

that one there for its deep-sea color

and that one for its velvet feel.

O irrevocable

river of things...

many things conspired

to tell me the whole story.

Not only did they touch me,

or my hand touched them:

they were

so close

that they were a part

of my being,

they were so alive with me

that they lived half my life

and will die half my death.