Objects Worth Inheriting
Most objects are designed to expire—planned obsolescence disguised as novelty. Some resist that churn by aging gracefully. A candle can’t be inherited; it ends by design. But the vessel can, and the rituals certainly do.
I keep jars from important seasons—the winter that needed more light than usual, the week of power cuts, the evening when news arrived and everything softened around the edges. They aren’t trophies; they’re archives. Black glass doesn’t date; it survives fashion cycles by refusing to announce its decade. A small brass detail elsewhere earns patina instead of rust. Simplicity is the secret to longevity.
What passes down most reliably isn’t the object; it’s the practice. The 5 mm trim taught by a parent, the rule about never burning while sleepy, the motion of the snuffer that feels like a signature. These are quiet wisdoms, learned once and used forever. They don’t appear in instruction manuals; they travel by kitchen tables.
Inheritance worth having is less about price and more about fitness—physical, aesthetic, emotional. Will this still make sense when trends invert? Does it embarrass the next generation or serve them? I aim for objects that can answer yes to the second question for as long as possible. If the jar is still working in thirty years, it will be because it learned to be quiet early.
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