There is an inescapable irony that our blog about objects is itself a virtual object, almost as intangible as the associations we have written about for the past six years. Yet it also seems rather appropriate, as the subtitle of Object is this definition:

noun: a visible and intangible entity

Our objects are tangible and intangible, a favoured word on this blog for capturing the duality of physical things and their less physical attributes. This blog has truly met the mission we set out with: to chronicle the stories of objects, from the mundane to the obscure, one written post at a time. Maybe we have, sometimes, stretched our definition of an object — Katie wrote about breath, while Eleanor wrote about ice on a window — but with 400 objects under our belts, it’s only fair that we allowed our minds to wander.

What have we learnt about objects? That, even though we said we wanted to write about the “mundane”, there are actually countless objects in our lives that we never once considered writing about. The cables connecting the DVD player to the TV. The toothpaste tube. The curry-stained spatula. All the things that we use almost daily, and yet have zero emotional attachment to.

The objects in this blog, instead, even when small and everyday, are the ones we might reach for to save in a fire, the ones we find our eyes returning to as we move around our homes. Or they are objects we have spotted out and about in the world, the ones that prompted us to stop and take out our phones to photograph. We ignore telegraph poles and bus stops, but stop to observe the twisted vines along a tree, a horizon-occupying statue, or a mysterious bouquet of flowers. Even after 400 objects, it is hard to expand your focus and truly look at the dull and functional objects in your life.

When we first started Object, we framed it as “an adventure into the world of objects”. We were “curious English students”, mid-way through our undergraduate degrees in literature, and recently influenced by the new (to us) discoveries of literary theory. Re-reading our earlier blog posts, we can identify those influences: Shklovsky’s ‘defamiliarisation’ technique appears in object #3, The Outdoor Seat, while many posts feature a quotation from literature, including Dickens and Dahl. There are also numerous posts about writing, whether that be in diaries or letters or planners or poetry notebooks. We began as aspiring writers; we end as more experienced writers, with hopes for embarking on new creative ventures.

Really, what this blog documents is our changing circumstances, and how it has altered our perspective even as it has also provided us with new experiences. Object documents our growth during a significant, quickly changing period of our lives: during the past six years, we each finished those first literature degrees, and moved out of student houses. Eleanor has had multiple jobs, in different cities, while Katie has also moved cities, (nearly) completed two more degrees, and changed to a married name. Friends and relationships have changed; Brexit happened; Trump happened; Covid-19 happened. When we started this blog we were at the very end of our teen years — now, we are mid-20s, and facing a new period of our lives: the 26-and-over category, which lacks discounts and makes us question what we want to do with our lives.

But as we face these new challenges, certain favoured objects of ours remain. Katie still owns her favourite mug, and a few new ones, too, which she can reach for when in need of a bit of comfort (Eleanor, however, has found a new mug to replace her previous favourite, broken in an unfortunate accident). Somewhere in America, the red leather chair sits, waiting for a space in a future Harling home — one of few objects remaining from the house that first sparked the idea of this blog, a house packed full of objects. Eleanor’s typewriter has since been used to make a zine, which has been photocopied and sold at her first poetry open mic night. The typewriter sits tucked under a coffee table, waiting for her next bout of creativity.

Out of the 400 objects we have written about, for this final post we challenged ourselves to think of two posts which stood out to each of us: one of our own, and one by the other. For Katie, a post of Eleanor’s which has always stuck in her head is the object of Dylan Thomas’s Underwear, for its mixture of comedy and seriousness; poetic expression blended with the reality of lives lived. A post of her own that she often thinks fondly of is a poem about A Tree Viewed Upside Down — a moment of calm captured in a poem; a moment turned into an object. For Eleanor, it was Katie’s post about her childhood bedroom that has stayed with her, a perfect preservation of the past, accompanied by a nostalgic 360 degree view of the room. From her own posts, Eleanor will always remember The Disembodied Ponytail and the uncanny feeling of seeing her own hair cut off and tucked inside an envelope.

Just as we had many reasons to start Object in 2016, so too do we have a number of reasons for finishing now. One of them is that it simply feels like the right time. We’ve reached a satisfying round number, and we have written about a lot of objects. Today also marks six years to the date that we published our first Object post, #0: The Blog. We have come full circle, to #400: The Blog, 400 posts later, about so many different types of objects.

This blog has served us to the full. Object has been a correspondence between friends; a creative outlet; a routine; a documentation of our lives; a place to experiment and learn; and now it is something to fondly put aside. It is time, now, to finish Object, at least in this form as we know it.

Maybe, one day, we’ll return to some of our Object posts, and take them further — but, for now, this is our last Object post. Thank you for joining us on our object-filled adventure. We are full of everything this object journey has given us and we are also ready to let it sit, like a dusty library, in our corner of the internet for ourselves and for others to discover and browse. A time capsule, if you will.

Farewell.

This post was written jointly by Eleanor Scorah and Katie Harling-Lee (née Harling-Challis), the co-creators and writers of Object.

Start the Object journey from the beginning here with our first ever blog post, or keep up with Katie and Eleanor’s next writing adventures on Twitter: follow Katie here and Eleanor here.

#400: The Blog was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When I started writing this post, I hesitated. Do I really want my last Object post to be yet another notebook?

Yes. Yes I do.

Why? Because, like my last notebook-themed object, the object of this post is a challenge to myself in tangible form. It is also a marker of what Object has given me: the knowledge that I can write about all sorts of things — when I actually set a deadline, a time for writing, and make myself do it.

Eleanor and I started Object for a number of reasons, but one of the main ones was this: to get ourselves writing regularly, because practice makes better, and we knew that if we held each other accountable, it would be a lot harder to quit. And, oh my, look how far we have come — Object #398. That’s a lot of words, a lot of writing. As we near the end of Object, I find myself wondering: how will I make sure I don’t lose my regular writing practice?

Of course, to answer such a question, I have a notebook. It is no secret that we are notebook lovers here, both having written multiple posts about the delight in a new notebook for a new project. Yet today’s object is not new new; I’ve had it for a couple of years now, and it’s filling up. Luckily, as it’s a Filofax Notebook, I can just replace the pages (which feels a little more eco friendly than buying a whole new notebook). But, more excitingly, it’s filling up with pages and pages of the same story. Maybe, one day, it will be a cohesive narrative. Maybe it will sit in a drawer afterwards, but even if it does, it might just be the first of many — my writing life continues, even if Object may finish soon.

Eleanor and I have a history of doing creative projects together, in various forms, and this is not our last — in our own private time, we do regular creative writing sessions. Eleanor is a poet, and I aspire to write my novella (don’t we all?) — so, we have regular Zoom chats with a bit of creative writing time included. It is our new ‘Object’, and I am excited to see where this next project leads — it is not as public as this one, and it is a slow-burn process when crafting long pieces of written words, rather than 500–800 word blog posts. But I also know from experience that our projects often lead to something good, and perhaps not entirely foreseen.

So, what other object can I end with other than a notebook? I bought my Filofax Notebook specifically for a big writing project, because the fun thing about a Filofax is that its pages are movable and removable. This makes the writing process work more akin to how my brain works: I can write a page or two, and then I can move them around, editing by moving sections in their physical form. This new creative notebook of mine, then, is an object that combines the joy of handwriting with a bit more technological flexibility (and more organisation than a collection of scraps of paper). It is not quite cut and paste, but it does the job wonderfully. (This is no sponsored post, by the way — I just really love good notebooks.)

I won’t say what I am writing in this notebook (where is the surprise, the mystery in that?), but I will say that the project is already in full swing. This notebook is being used, regularly, and I hope that, after Object #400, I will find both the time and the motivation to write my next page, and the next, and the next — building another creative writing project full of thousands of words, and maybe a few objects, too.

Thank you, Ellie, for this blog — on which we have just two posts to go. Thank you, too, for the inspiration not only to buy this notebook — but to fill it.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#398: The Creative Writing Notebook was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

During the last months of my PhD studies I realised that I was in the process of creating my own momentous object: a printed, bound, PhD thesis. 100,000 words of my own ordering, articulating ideas from my past four years of study. At a similar time, Eleanor Scorah and I also decided that the life of Object as we know it was coming to an end: our 400th post, on August 19th 2022, will be our last, marking six years since our first post.

On realising the end was in sight for two long-term, creative projects, I decided to combine the two. This is my penultimate object before our last, joint, 400th Object post. What follows is a blog post in diary form, written during the last months of my PhD studies (pre-viva).

April 2022
As I begin to write this post, I have completed a full draft of my PhD thesis. All 104,578 words of it (footnotes included). But I am hoping that, by the time this post is finished and published, I will hold in my hands the final draft. Maybe it will even be the photo you see above these words.

Starting this post could be considered ‘tempting fate’, for I have two deadlines: yes, I need to submit my PhD soon. But I also have to finish this blog at 400 objects, on the anniversary of when it all started. So, my PhD deadline? August 19th, the day we first posted on Object. Since then, I have written thousands of words — for this blog, and for my PhD.

May 2022
Today I received, in the post, a full printed version of my PhD, and I have discovered it requires a whole A4 ringbinder to contain it. But I’m not sure when or how to begin reading it and editing it. What colour pen should I use? Where should I sit? How do I make this moment feel momentous? I imagine taking myself to a particular café I have been planning to visit, sipping my black coffee, turning the first page…

But is this all just procrastination? Rather than aiming for that perfect moment, should I not just open it right now and get started? I can grab whatever pen I can find, whatever quiet seat will hold me, and turn the page. The finish line is in sight, and I want to find out how close it really is.

June 2022
Since last writing, I have edited a paper version of my PhD, updated the electronic document, and then fully proofread and annotated a PDF version on my iPad. I have read so many versions of the entire 300+ pages, each version seeming like the last until I spot another typo, decide on a different word choice, or tweak the formatting here or there. Yet the end is close, my submission is coming up, and soon, this pile of paper will be out of my hands for a little while.

July 2022
It is finished (for now). I have submitted my PhD, on time, and before my Object-imposed deadline. What is it like, that feeling of submission? Amazing, surreal, odd. It is hard to believe it is done, handed over to examiners. Soon, again, I’ll be re-reading it in preparation for my viva, but for now, I have some months of ‘freedom’. After nearly four years of working on my PhD, I am at a loss with what to do with myself, how to structure my time, my days, my life.

All in all, I am pleased with it. I read bits and go, “did I really write that?!”, while other sections I can read and place the moment that I wrote those words, or had that idea. After years of working mostly on the computer, it was a meaningful moment to hold in my hands the printed, soft-bound copy of my words, my work. To feel its chunkiness, the substantiality of years of thoughts, ideas, reading, and pondering.

This is the biggest project I have ever completed (so far), and it did not go where I expected it to — but, then, you never quite know where a four-year creative project will end up.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#396: The PhD Thesis was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

My mother used to wonder at my choice to darn my socks when a teenager (she didn’t have the patience, I think, though she is an amazing sewer of other, more fun and wonderful things), and when I was in primary school I used to knit — though never achieving more than a wonky scarf. For me, when I was young, it was the action that mattered, that kept me going. The final product was never that much to be proud of — there were soon more difficult-to-fix holes in my cheap socks, and I never did complete a knitting project that was straight.

Today, however, perhaps nearly fifteen years later, I am interested in the product and the process. I, too, share with my mother a limited patience for darning, but I do try. What I find therapeutic, however, is knitting. I find that as I knit each stitch, my mind empties — the thoughts, worries, and tasks of the day come to the front of my mind, and then find a place in the stitches, the air around me, or another part of my brain. Things settle — a new stitch is made, a new thought is sorted.

I returned to my knitting just eight months ago. My mother had posted up my old yarn and knitting needles. I had never, when I was younger, succeeded in learning to cast on a new knitting project— but my husband showed me how to begin, and I have since learnt two new ways to start a project.

It was a Sunday, I think — just any normal Sunday, perhaps in October, when I began again. The first thing I knitted was supposed to be a simple square, but I lost and gained stitches for reasons I could not fathom. By the third little square, however, I was managing to retain the same number of stitches I had started with, and not gain any extra, either. Soon, I was knitting a headband — then another, and then another. They turned out to be simple, cosy, and useful, and they also made excellent Christmas presents.

My latest knitting challenge involves circular needles — in my first go, I made the classic mistake, and twisted my knitting (if you know, you know). But I unravelled it, begun again, and so far — so good. Now I only pray I don’t run out of yarn before the project is finished.

But this is not the only crafting I have been doing. I have also discovered the wonders of “visible mending” — a more interesting version of sock darning which makes your repair work deliberately visible, often in a colourful fashion. Though I have yet to feel like a natural with it, I made a start and sewed the sleeve of my favourite cashmere cardigan back together. To do this, though, I needed a bigger needle than any I had, as I was wanting to use blue knitting yarn — an object was needed. So I turned to my husband (who loves DIY) and put in my request. Maybe an hour or so later, I had this needle in my hand, made from an old wooden chopstick.

When I first held it, I thought of bones. Of the bone needles I have seen in museums. Though new to me, it feels old, well-worn with work already — from its previous life as a chopstick. There is also something pleasing in its size — thick like a knitting needle, but short like a sewing needle. It did the job perfectly.

Now, when I catch that hint of blue yarn on my sleeve, I smile — at my mending, and its visibility. And at the thought of reusing old tools, and discovering new ones.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#394: Crafting Needles was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Ideas, words, or phrases sometimes come to me in the oddest of moments. I’ll be in the shower, or getting myself ready for bed, when my mind starts wandering to creative things and, then, next thing I know, I’m rushing to find my phone, or a pencil and a piece of paper — or a pill packet.

The hard part is getting the ideas written down fast enough, the exact phrases as they come, before the moment fades and the ideas are lost. And the next hardest part is knowing when to stop. After all the words that came rushing, there will be a few moments of pause — the first one or two might produce further useful thoughts, but soon the rush will slow, and I will discover I am simply writing to write. That is when to stop.

Fortunately with this pill packet, my words stopped not long before the space ran out. I was lying in bed, just before going to sleep — which meant I was trying not to look at my phone, and so, instead, I searched my bedside drawer till I found this: a pill packet I quickly tore apart to access.

What was I writing on that pill packet? A blog post! And afterwards, it became clear another blog post had written itself in the process: this one.

The flimsiness of the pill packet, it’s trash-like nature, reminds me of other scraps of paper which were disregarded, nearly lost — Emily Dickinson’s draftings and scribbles on the backs and scraps of envelopes. She made use of paper she had to hand, and perhaps revelled in the added security of scraps: paper people will often overlook, and is therefore safe from prying eyes.

But the pieces were found, recognised, and recorded eventually. A book was produced — a beautiful book, titled The Gorgeous Nothings: Emily Dickinson’s Envelope Poems, edited by Jen Bervin and Marta Werner. It includes facsimiles of the envelope pieces, seen from the back and the front, allowing you to see just how small those pieces were —and how lucky we are that the tiny things were noticed.

I am not, of course, equating my blog post with Dickinson’s poetry (I wish!). But I am equating the writing process, finding parallel patterns and shared techniques. Writing processes and experiences vary to our own temperaments, but that moment of inspiration…that is something unique yet shared.

I hope that everyone not only experiences that creative feeling at some point in their lives, but succeeds in finding just the right scrap of paper, or pill packet, on which to jot down those thoughts, those phrases — one’s own words.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger, Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at @ObjectBlog.

#392: A Packet Scrap was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There’s a woman in the graveyard.
She looks out
a yearning face
onto a blank wall.

Once, she looked further
back before land was claimed
before the graveyard was protected.

She would have looked towards the graveyard wall,
and perhaps
above it
beyond it
onto the street.

I feel sorry for the woman
who stares at a blank wall so close —

but then I think of the house she would have looked across to.
What would it have been like
to stand in your bedroom window
and meet the gaze
of a stone woman?

Perhaps that household welcomed the wall — 
to put between them and death a barrier
though not as firm
as the stone woman.

One day
the wall will fall
the house too may crumble
but the woman might be there
still

standing
staring
no longer at a blank wall
but an unknown, unseen
future

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter at@ObjectBlog.

#390: The Stone Woman was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

When I first saw Bernardine Evaristo’s name on the Booker short list back in 2019, it rang a bell. I wondered — is that the woman I interviewed way back when? Girl, Woman, Other sounded like such a different book to the one I had read… but it was her. I had her novella, Hello Mum, on my shelf, and I had a blank Word document on my computer. That document was all that remained of the never-written transcript of the interview I had with her in 2010, when I was a keen, fortunate, and nervous teenager.

At the young and naive age of 14, I interviewed Bernardine Evaristo in my village church. It was for our local arts festival, where our village read was Hello Mum. It’s a novella, short and tragic, detailing gang violence in London — a world away from my teenage experience in the countryside. Evaristo came and did a book event in the church to a room full of people, and then I got to sit in a pew with her and ask her questions. I managed the interview, but when it came to writing it up, I was lost. I could not think how to begin, and in the middle of high school life, it was forgotten. When I saw her name on the Booker list and remembered that moment from nearly ten years before, I tried to find the recording, but it was missing. All I had was that blank document, glaring back at me.

But then, more recently, my mother managed to find it, buried somewhere on her laptop, and she sent it to me out of the blue. I opened that unexpected email, and suddenly I was transported back to my teenage years, to that pew in that church. I listened to my voice, at first restrained with nerves, but later loosening. And I listened to Evaristo, being her welcome, sociable self, as she talked about writing to a young girl who loved books and words, a girl who never would have imagined where she’d be now, in 2022.

Listening to that interview today, 12 years after the fact, I hear my 14-year-old self and write this as my 26-year-old self. I am in the 20s that Evaristo said in that interview could be the time that I start writing. And I am writing — though no novels (yet). The interview is short, sweet. It cuts off just as it starts getting interesting, when the interview ends and I just get to hear Evaristo talk to a 14-year-old girl who loves books. But there are some nuggets there in that audio recording, pieces of advice which, when heard or read now, are especially poignant considering how far Evaristo has come from that little local book affair.

The first of Bernardine Evaristo’s writing tips from 2010 is simple, yet often forgotten: if you want to write, then write. And remember to read a lot and, perhaps more importantly, read widely:

“Don’t just read the books that you naturally read, stretch yourself and read some of the more difficult books. Read international fiction, if it’s fiction you want to write.”

The next tip is the poignant one, writing this after Evaristo’s rise to fame:

“Remember that it’s a long career. A lot of people want to write something and get published and get a lot of money straight away. But it’s actually a career that you want to last a lifetime. You develop your craft and hopefully get better as you mature.”

Following on from that, Evaristo reminded little young me to remember I was 14, so the key thing then was to start writing, and keep it up:

“If you’re really interested, you might study English at university, you might go and do a creative writing MA after that, if you feel you need to, and by the time you’re in your 20s, you might start writing something that might find a publisher.”

Well, I’m in my 20s now, and I’m still writing — here’s the proof. I have my English degree, I have an MA (though not in creative writing), and now I’m writing the mega dissertation: a PhD. The question is, do my free-time scribbles of creative writing show the promise of something publishable? Perhaps this is the decade for me to ask that question.

One of my final questions was whether she had a message she wanted to put in her books. Reading it now, after all of the books she’s written, she’s succeeding, not just in the message, but in maintaining her creative focus:

“I feel passionately about having an equal society. I feel passionately about injustice. But I don’t approach my work looking at that. I just think of the kinds of issues, the kinds of stories, that I’m interested in. The idea is to not write about it as if it’s an issue but to write about, and express it through, the characters. So the characters come alive. The stories that I’m very interested in telling are the stories that don’t get told.”

The interview recording that I have finishes mid sentence, with Evaristo giving my 14-year-old self encouraging comments on my interview style, comments which cut off just as I want to hear more. I’m sorry I did not write that interview up when I did it, but here are her nuggets of wisdom, shared now, and still just as relevant 10 years down the line. And you know what? Just as it’s amazing to see how far Evaristo has come, it’s nice to see how far I’ve come — how much I’ve written, how much I’ve read, and how much more there is left to write.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter @ ObjectBlog.

#388: The Bernardine Evaristo Interview was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Advent, the time just passed, is a time for waiting. We know it best from advent calendars, opening a little window each day of December to reveal a picture, or a chocolate, or both. We wait again on New Year’s Eve, counting down the hours, then the minutes, then the seconds. Is there any other night where you so consciously notice the minutes passing, and the sudden rush to find the right channel for the countdown? We do not want to miss that moment we have waited so long for.

I have been doing another type of waiting this holiday, a waiting which happens to have taken place in the time between Christmas and New Year’s, although it has continued into the new 2022: I am waiting for my copper coffee pot to boil and brew. It is not really my pot, but my mother’s, given to her by her mother. I can see it becoming a family heirloom — as is the act of waiting for coffee to boil, brew, and settle.

In the early days of this blog, I wrote a post about sundials, a post which was inspired by the sundial in my grandparents’ yard, but also by the act of waiting for coffee to brew in the only pot we had to hand at the time: a percolator without the percolating part. Like my mother’s copper pot above, it was just a jug, so for us to have a cup of coffee without grounds of coffee floating in it, time was, and is, needed to boil it up and then let it settle down. Once brewed, I pour coffee carefully from the jug, a gentle motion which leaves the grounds at the bottom while the strong black coffee flows into the cup.

This is ‘cowboy coffee’ in our house, coffee which requires time, and watchful but patient waiting. So while my coffee was brewing one morning, I sat down near the kitchen and wrote the first draft of this blog post — waiting for my coffee with ears pricked for the sound of boiling, but using the time to consider other things.

In other words, I have been participating in active waiting: a time of preparation and anticipation, not a listless sense of lost or wasted time. Each day for the last week I have enjoyed waking up, pottering downstairs, and putting on my coffee to brew. And each time I have savoured the waiting. Sometimes I write, or chat, or other times I just sit and think. Being in my childhood home for the holidays brings back many memories, layering on top of each other, as I think about the person I used to be, the person I am now, and the person I might be in the future. Just as this blog post written in 2021 overlays my earlier Object post written in 2016, memories layer up in my mind’s eye as I sit, wait, and think about time passing.

A new year has dawned, and I am actively marking it in my mind, as I am also actively marking each day in my mind, acknowledging the good and the bad and not letting it simply pass me by. I have been inspired by Paula Gooder’s The Meaning is in the Waiting: The Spirit of Advent, but now that advent has passed and the new year begins, I am asking myself how I can keep that sense of meaning in my waiting. I sit surrounded by childhood memories and thoughts for the future, and wonder: how can I wait for things to come like I wait for my coffee to brew?

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter @ ObjectBlog.

#386: The Copper Coffee Pot was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’ll be honest, I think there have been better Lumieres than this year’s — Lumiere being Durham’s biennial light show across the city, and as of this year, across the county. The cuckoos of 2017 remain my favourite, although I am also a fan of the now-permanent only you can write the next page. This year was my third Lumiere, so maybe I had high expectations, but there was one piece that stood out: Scattered Light by Jim Campbell.

I nearly missed the full glory of this piece, and I wasn’t the only one. At first glace, it looked to be simply a wall of flickering lights. Very pretty lights, I must say, bringing a warm glow to the chill of a winter evening in the north, but seemingly just a collection of simple lights nonetheless.

That was what I thought, when I first saw it from a distance walking down the majestic Mary’s College driveway, and I continued to think that as I came to a stop and looked at one end of it. But I am so glad that I decided to walk around and view it from another perspective, to step back far enough to see that the lights were not flickering randomly — they were creating what I can only describe as shadows. Where the lights flicked off, figures appeared, running across the wall of lights, as though rushing to a lecture down the hill or heading home after a long day’s walk.

Watch a clip of Scattered Light here.

https://www.instagram.com/p/CWtId4Wlcnv/

I was delighted with this piece, and stood there gazing at it, watching the shadows walking in different places and at different speeds. And then I wondered: does it work with my glasses off? The answer: yes, even better than with them on. Being short sighted, when I took my glasses off the little lights became larger fuzzy balls of glowing yellow light, while the figures of shadow continued to walk across them. By the time I decided to put my glasses back on, it was no longer so impressive — for once, it was a positive not being able to see clearly from a distance.

Perhaps my joy was increased after a less eventful wander around the other lumiere sights (although the Castle poetry and Halo were also favourites of mine). Maybe I was tired after all that hill walking in Durham. But I remain glad that we stopped to see Scattered Light, our last Lumiere sight of the evening. This piece allowed me to pretend I was staring at a beautiful galaxy of lights, while also enjoying the magic of the illusion of shadow figures walking in the stars. My only wish was that I could walk among them.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter @ ObjectBlog.

#384: Scattered Light was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am walking the bridges of life this week. Metaphorically, I stride across the zigzag pattern of my life, sidestepping obstacles and unexpected sudden turns. This is the yatsuhashi zigzag bridge, a Japanese bridge designed to represent life’s jagged path: no straight walk of life for me, or anyone.

Soon, I reach the first island: Hōrai, the island of perpetual youth. But this is not the last island, for another bridge awaits, one leading to the next life. This is the sorihashi arched bridge: traditionally built with a sharp climb, rising steeply above the water as one cannot see what is on the other side until one reaches it.

I have not left Scotland to walk these bridges, but travelled only an hour north of Edinburgh, to the Japanese Garden at Cowden, in Clackmannanshire. As their website says, it is 5,775 miles east of Tokyo, and like another Japanese garden I visited in the US, this is a garden that blurs the distinction between Japan and Scotland. While making use of Scotland’s hills and plants, traditional Japanese plants are also grown and shaped in this garden.

I learn the remarkable history of this garden while on a wonderful tour of its paths. Although only recently restored, it was first founded by Ella Christie in 1908, who hired Taki Handa to help her design and create this garden called Shã Raku En: ‘The Place of Pleasure and Delight’. We wander the paths, gazing on beautiful rocks and a ‘dry’ or traditional Japanese rock garden (karsansui). We stand in the azumaya, a place to rest on the water’s edge, and I take in the stories and the symbolism, marvelling at the thoughtful placement of each element.

What strikes me most about this garden is its abundance of metaphors. The garden is built on certain principles, creating meaning in its patterns and layout. In essence, the garden uses physical objects to represent what one struggles to contemplate fully in life: a zigzag bridge distills the unknown path of my life into twenty metres of a narrow wooden path above water in which I do not wish to fall. An arched bridge over that same water obscures my view of the other side of life.

Rather than making my life seem small or reduced, these metaphors allow me to contemplate it. To put it into a wider perspective, which includes the plants and landscape around me, and the others who are stepping onto these paths beside, behind, and ahead of me. I can stand at a zigzag point and stare down into the water, looking at my reflection even as I also look at the bright pink of a water lily, and the tail of a fish swimming away.

Standing in this garden, I contemplate life. I find contentment in my wider surroundings. Standing by the water and watching the wind and sun sweep across its surface, I find peace in metaphors, and peace in life.

Katie writes regularly about random objects that she finds in her everyday life. If you’re interested in reading more, check out her blog Object, a collaboration with fellow Medium blogger Eleanor. You can also follow us on Twitter @ ObjectBlog.

#382: The Japanese Garden was originally published in Objects on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.