Lost Treasures
I stare at a pile of platinum and gold and sapphires and diamonds. I have not discovered some buried pirate booty; I sit in a tony Greenwich jewelery store, intimidated by the surroundings and the sales folk who dress far better than I ever will. I don’t belong here, and I want to run, but my college roommate and BFF has both assured me that she trusted the place and walked me in practically holding my hand.
I have, in an embroidered green faux silk jewelry roll, trinkets that trace the history of my failed marriage: the stunning princess cut engagement ring that I wore alone on my right ring finger; the two gold bands – one with diamonds and one with diamonds and sapphires – that I wore on the left to tell the world I was married. And the much heftier platinum/diamond/sapphire (I’m a September baby) band that replaced the two smaller ones for a milestone anniversary. And some less valuable things: diamond and sapphire earrings and pendants and bracelets.
I don’t wear any of them anymore because they only remind me of what isn’t. I feel they have, in some strange way, bad karma. They hide in my bank safe deposit where the darkness, multiple locks, and barred steel doors normally sequester their supernatural powers. They’ve come out today so that Warren, the pudding-faced, slightly-more-middle-aged-than-I sales associate who my friend trusts (“my husband’s family has done business with him for fifty years…”) can look at them with a cold, objective, louped eye to tell me how much they are worth.
In dollars. He cannot begin to weigh their emotional toll, no matter how carefully he places them on his little jeweler’s scale.
Alchemy
Britannica defines the practice of alchemy, which dates back at least to the twelfth century, as “a form of speculative thought that tried to transform base metals such as lead or copper into silver or gold, and to discover a cure for disease and a way of extending life.” It differed from plain old change, in that it aimed always to improve on the original material, never to make it less valuable. This ancient philosophy/science, closely aligned with astronomy at its origin, aimed to “discover the relationship of man to the cosmos and to exploit that relationship to his benefit.”
But somewhere along the way, alchemy’s shine tarnished, taking on a charlatanic tinge. It became more associated with hocus pocus, fraud, and quackery. The OED reflects this dulling in one of the word’s myriad definitions: “the seemingly magical or miraculous power of transmutation or extraction.”
I suppose I have practiced alchemy, albeit sans the wizardry, over the years. I cherished the home in which my former husband and I raised our boys as they navigated their way from Pre-K to college graduation. But that structure that once rooted me strongly to my identity and family became a thorn in my side post-divorce. I inhabited very little square footage of the immense space I heated, cooled, cleaned, maintained, and insured.
Using modern-day alchemy, I changed it from something once very desirable that had become less so into something more so. I sold the older, oversized dry clean only cashmere wrap, and bought a snugger, machine-washable Gap hoodie. My new attached town home fits me better and requires far less maintenance. And since the big house sold for more than the little condo cost, I also recently treated myself to a tiny flat in Stratford Upon Avon.
Anime Rules
The Japanese anime series Fullmetal Alchemist, to which my youngest son introduced me knowing my affection for the Studio Ghibli films, tells the story of brothers Ed and Al Elric, who embark on a quest to find the Philosopher’s Stone so that they can restore themselves to physical wholeness. The law of Equivalent Exchange figures heavily into the alchemists’ code in this adventure: it “limits alchemy’s infinite potential. Something cannot be created from nothing, so in order to obtain something, something else of equivalent value must be lost.”
The original spirit of alchemy – changing a less desirable thing into a more desirable thing – possessed me. The monetary value of the properties had little to do with my level of satisfaction. The feeling with which each place was imbued mattered far more. It was hard to leave our family home behind, but our family was broken, and evil spirits haunted that house along with the friendly ghosts. My town home gives me a fresh start to a new chapter, and the shoebox flat across the pond (which Covid has prevented me visiting to date) will bring me back to one of my favorite chapters.
Back to the Future
I have yet to hear from the Greenwich jeweler who is no doubt busy with Greenwich customers buying holiday baubles for hundreds of thousands of dollars. My paltry collection of what now amounts to mere memorabilia has simply fallen to the bottom of his priority list with a loud clink.
This is not the first time I’ve asked an expert to value my bijouterie. I have toyed with the idea of selling the lot of it on and off for years. It’s stunning, all of it, but I wear none of it. I have thought of giving it to my boys, but the nagging sense that it carries bad juju stops me. I have no idea if they’d even want any of it. I have no girls to pass it along to in a dramatic bequeathment, and even if I did, I’m not sure I’d want to pass along the implied curse of my inability to remain married. They, like I, all deserve a fresh start.
What will I do when the pudding-faced man finally gets around to valuing my keepsakes? Will I keep them? Take the money and run? I don’t know. They glow with radioactive emotion. Selling them might remove a source of pain in my life. In my imaginary conversation with Marie Kondo, I reluctantly admit that “no, they do not bring me joy.” On the other hand, I feel that eradicating this chapter of my life in a business transaction would represent a version of the Gensis song: “Selling my Past by the Pound” in an attempt to erase or negate a part of my history which, difficult or not, is part of me.
To what would I alchemize them? I suppose that depends on what dollar value the world assigns to them at this moment in time. Perhaps I will save some money to give to my sons toward their non-existent fiancés’ engagement rings so they don’t feel Madison Avenue’s pressure to spend two months’ salary. Maybe I will give it to John Lewis or Habitat in exchange for outfitting my new home across the pond with… everything. What Mr. Pudding cannot tell me – what no one can tell me – is how much this handful of items means to me, and whether liquidating them for cash will be alchemy in the truest, older sense of the word, or some “superficial trickery, deceptive cleverness.”