Jewelry Box — by Guest Mom Kyran Pittman

Think of this as the disclaimer at the front of a book or a movie, the fine print: I am in no way an authority on design. I am a writer, a poet, and a mom to three boys, ages eight, six and three. Our home, a century-old foursquare in Little Rock, Arkansas, is furnished with a random assortment of other people’s castoffs. My wardrobe is nearly as haphazard. My husband is a talented freelance graphic designer, but…you know the old saying about the physician’s family going undoctored?

In short, any resemblance I bear to design bloggers living or dead is not only sheerly coincidental, but downright ludicrous. Also, small persons may be harmed in the production of this guest spot. It depends on whether they persist in jumping off the furniture while I am trying to write.

The truth is, I am more often tuned to the frequency of interior life than exterior. Part of it is constitutional. I am highly intuitive, and barely functional at the sensate level. I can walk into a room and pick up on a subtle undercurrent of tension between two people, but not be able to recollect what color either was wearing five minutes after I leave. And part of it is historical. I have lost or let go of nearly all my personal possessions twice in my life; once in a house fire, and once through divorce. I find it difficult to invest much, literally or spiritually, in material objects. It’s not that I don’t appreciate or covet them, it’s just that I am wary of getting attached.

The exception to this is jewelry. Jewelry, I love with abandon. Here's why:

• Jewelry is portable. You can run away to Mexico or escape a burning house with it. Take my word for it.

• Jewelry is intimate. It touches you where only lovers do, the lobe of your ear, the hollow of your throat. Or it grasps the base of your finger, encircles your wrist, like your own child.

• Jewelry is symbolic. It says I promise, I remember, I do.

• Jewelry has a spirit, a life of its own. Over time, something of you passes into it, and something of it, into you. I firmly believe that the meaningful pieces come and go of their own accord. I wrote a little about that here, when a special necklace of mine decided it was time to move on.

• Finally—and most compelling to me—jewelry tells a story. In particular, it tells women's stories, stories passed down along a matriarchal line. When I glance down at my hand, I see my own grandmother's hand, clad in her signature marcasite ring she left me. I am reminded of all that I have inherited from that great lady, my father's mother, Mary: her dimpled smile, her gift with words, her deep connection with nature, her fabulous fruitcake recipes. As a girl, I loved to rummage through my mother's white leather jewelry box. Every object in it had its own story and meaning, from the sterling bracelet from which hung a charm with my own name, to exotic looking costume beads, to the solitaire ring with the empty claws, from which her engagement diamond had loosed and disappeared one day into the shag of our carpets, never to be found. In that box, was a priceless treasure and legacy: my mother's life story.

I am so honored that Gabrielle has allowed me to come and share with you some of the stories found in my own jewelry box. Like special books that begin with an illuminated letter, each piece starts with design. Let's open the lid together, and take a look inside.