Milk and Honey Day 15: What We Carry With Us

Most of us own very few things that truly matter.

Not valuable or expensive things. Truly meaningful things.

The older I get, the more I notice that certain objects survive every move, every life change, every season of decluttering and starting over. Somehow they keep making the cut: a photograph tucked in a box, a piece of jewelry passed down through generations, a letter from a loved one, a recipe card in someone's handwriting, a book you've read a million times.

We carry them with us because they represent something larger than wh we are in the present moment.

They remind us who we were, who we loved, what we survived, and who we are still becoming.

Yesterday, I wrote about the importance of transitions. Those moments where life divides itself into before and after. Becoming a parent. Losing someone you love. Starting over. Falling in love. Walking away. Receiving news that changes the future you thought you were building.

Most of us can point to a handful of moments that permanently altered the landscape of our lives.

The strange thing about those transitions is that they often leave us looking for anchors.

Not because we're trying to stay the same, but because we're trying to understand who we are becoming.

I think that's why people instinctively surround themselves with meaningful objects during seasons of change.

Sometimes it's intentional and sometimes it isn't.

Furniture gets rearranged because an empty chair suddenly feels too loud. Hair gets cut because we need a physical way to let go of a version of ourselves that no longer fits. A garden gets planted as an act of hope, proof that things still grow after difficult seasons. Walls get painted. Rooms get reclaimed. New traditions quietly replace old ones.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, we collect things that help us make sense of where we are.

A photograph gets framed. A favorite mug becomes part of a morning ritual. A painting finds its way onto a wall.

Not because any of those things solve the problem.

They don't.

But they help us put down roots in the middle of change. They become markers. Reminders. Small declarations of what we want to carry forward and what we're finally ready to leave behind.

I think that's why meaningful objects matter so much during seasons of transition. They help bridge the space between who we were and who we are becoming.

We're creating physical reminders of things we don't want to lose. Hope. Beauty. Meaning. The possibility that something good still lies ahead even when life feels uncertain.

I've sold artwork to people celebrating new homes, new babies, retirements, and long awaited fresh starts. I've also sold artwork to people navigating grief, divorce, illness, and seasons they never would have chosen for themselves. What strikes me every time is that the artwork is rarely the whole story.

The story is the season.

Years later, people may not remember exactly when they purchased a painting, but they remember where they were in life. They remember what they were rebuilding, grieving, hoping for, or growing into. The artwork becomes attached to that chapter. It becomes part of the emotional landscape of a home.

But meaningful objects don't just hold memories. They often hold aspirations too. They become quiet reminders of what we're building, what we're believing for, and the person we're trying to become. Long after the details of a particular season fade, they continue pointing us toward the future we hoped was possible when we first brought them home.

That idea sits underneath this entire Milk and Honey collection.

“Cloud By Day” and “Fire By Night” diptych by BekHarris Art on display in a home office"

Not because I'm trying to paint wheat fields or bees or landscapes for their own sake, but because I'm interested in the role beauty plays in our lives. The objects we choose to live with become part of our daily experience in ways we rarely think about. We walk past them hundreds of times. We see them in morning light, during difficult conversations, while making coffee, celebrating milestones, and living through ordinary Tuesdays.

I think that's why meaningful art matters. Not because it announces itself loudly, but because it quietly accompanies us through years of living. It bears witness to the life unfolding around it. The painting remains the same while we continue changing, growing, grieving, celebrating, and becoming.

Long after the details of a particular season have faded, the right piece of artwork still has the ability to remind us of what mattered, what carried us through, and what we were hoping for when we first welcomed it into our lives. It becomes part of the story itself, quietly witnessing the years that follow.