The Things We Treasure


Few things are in my possession that I treasure. Over the years, it has been books, mementoes from childhood. With every move a few have been lost, misplaced or given away. Some things, however, come into our lives and transform it.

The year was 2005. It was mid October. The season when leaves fall, trees go bare and we lose all pretensions. It was also the year when I was starting to get worried about starting a family. I would soon be over the hill. The age that had been a far away lamp-post on my road towards a baby now coming at me with alarming speed.

I was not yet desperate. I believed that science and medicine would triumph where nature had failed. So what if one method of treatment did not work, there were yet others we had not tried. I found renewed faith in rituals. In ceremonies I once had scoffed at.

She walked in that evening after checking with me on what the festival was all about. The swell of people I had invited was starting to ebb and soon it was just us. She pulled me aside and thrust it into my hand. Her voice low and intense. She said “I want you to have this. She is a Native American Goddess of fertility.”


My fingers clasped itself around this pagan goddess who had found me. An ember of hope. A sign of sorts from above. I thanked her, tears stinging the inside of my eyes. The rest of the evening is a blur. I remember going to bed with her on my nightstand.

She went with me every time I met with a doctor. She was there as I was pricked and prodded in an effort to figure out what was wrong. She stood mute as I shed tears over my body’s failure to do what it was supposed to do. She saw me through cycles of hope and despair. She was the one constant through the years.

I held on to her as a symbol of hope. Of a tangible token on which to place my expectations. She morphed as my needs changed. She accompanied me as I did my Masters. She traveled with me on pilgrimages. She sat in on my first meeting with an adoption agency. She stood silent as I mourned the end of my baby dreams one December. She journeyed with me as I brought my twins home. She sat with me as I settled on our new home. She was the one I turned to before I turned the lights out in the hospital room the day before my daughter was born.

She stays in my bag. An invisible companion. A presence that takes the form of what I want her to be at the moment. She is my hope. My strength. My rock. My mirror.

She is my treasure.

This is my entry to Day twenty of Writing 101 at The Daily Post.



Author. Parent.

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