Object-ives #12: The Owl Remains

On whittling a life down to what matters, and why one lamp still stays with me

Betsy Chasse’s owl lamp is a keeper

I’ve always been fascinated by the things people keep—the objects that somehow become the keepers of our stories.

This morning, I find myself in one of those in-between places. I dropped my son off at the airport as he flew off to begin his freshman year of college in another state. We nearly broke his brand-new duffel bag stuffing all the things he wanted to carry with him into it.

I felt a pang that I couldn’t be there for the ritual of moving him in, carrying boxes up dorm stairs, fussing over where the desk lamp should go. I think he was a little disappointed, too. But I also sensed his relief—relief that his mom wouldn’t be lingering in the doorway of his new room. He has always been deeply rooted in family, yet now I can see him reaching, stretching, claiming his independence.

Meanwhile, I’ve whittled my own life down to a single box. A few photos. And one object that means more than the rest: a mosaic owl lamp my dad gave me.

It has taken me years—and more than a few false starts—to learn how to let things go. Decades of collecting and decorating, of hanging bits of life on walls and perching them on shelves, only to find myself one day sorting through it all, deciding what could stay and what had to slip away.

The first great letting-go was in 2019. I was worn thin, carrying the weight of raising two kids alone while keeping up a house, a yard, a car—you know, life. So I convinced my kids to take a semester off school, and together we reduced everything we owned to what would fit in a 10x10-foot storage unit. Then we set off on a truly grand adventure for about four months.

When we came back, I pulled those boxes out of storage, unwrapped each object, and hung familiar things back on the walls. I loved seeing those pieces of our story surrounding us again. But something in me had shifted. I had already learned that the memories didn’t actually live inside those objects. They lived inside me.

That’s the strange thing about legacy—we imagine the things we leave behind will tell our story. But after the purge, I realized my story wasn’t in the “things,” the trinkets, or the dozens of books. My story was in the living of it, in the way those objects once held space for a moment that had already passed.

Still, it’s not so simple. Because even knowing that, I couldn’t let everything go. Some things tug harder. Some things refuse to release.

Recently, it was time for another purge. This time I let go of my childhood desk, the one with my name carved into it. I let go of the bench my father gave me 30 years ago. I let go of objects I once thought would be my legacy.

Part of this shift is practical: I’m entering a season where I want to travel more lightly. Instead of paying rent to anchor myself to one place, I’m choosing to use my resources differently—to help my son through college, support my daughter with her apartment. When I’m in Los Angeles, I stay with her. It feels right: a kind of circling back, a reminder that home isn’t defined by square footage or furniture, but by the people we love and the spaces we share.

There’s another reason, too. When my parents died, I faced the immense task of sorting through their lives—the closets, the boxes, the furniture, all the pieces that once seemed indispensable. I don’t want to leave that behind for my children. I’d rather lighten the load now. So I asked them what they wanted, what objects felt important to carry forward. The rest, I’ve let go of, trusting that our true legacy isn’t in things, but in the love and memories that remain.

Everything was reduced again. A couple of boxes for each of my children. One small box for me.

And in my box: the owl lamp.

It’s kitschy, yes. But it was such an unexpected gift from my dad—maybe that’s why I love it most. You don’t expect your father to understand the odd little things that light you up. My parents were always traditional about gifts—bath balms, lotion, books. But on one visit to New Orleans—where they’d moved after my dad chose jazz over academia—he disappeared into his office. He came back grinning, carrying something in his hands.

“I found this for you,” he said, glowing with excitement. It wasn’t my birthday. Not Christmas. Just an ordinary day turned extraordinary.

Then he held out this owl lamp—its body covered in uneven shards of colored glass, its eyes glowing red when plugged in. It was odd and wonderful and perfect. I couldn’t believe he’d found something so unexpected, something that felt like me.

So through every purge, every letting-go, the owl has stayed. Somehow, all the joy I’ve ever carried feels tucked into those fractured pieces of glass.

It’s as if each shard holds a piece of me.

And maybe that’s what legacy really is—not the objects, but how they remind us of love, joy, the people who saw us clearly.

I keep carrying this lamp from place to place, even as I let go of bigger things that once seemed to matter. The owl stays.

Because when I switch it on, it glows with more than light—it glows with memory, my father’s delight, the reminder that once, on an ordinary day, he thought of me and wanted me to have joy.

And I’m not ready to let that go.

Betsy Chasse is an award-winning filmmaker, a bestselling author, a mom, and the owner of one mosaic owl lamp. Learn more about her at www.betsychasse.net.

Object-ives features flash nonfiction essays of 500-999 words on the possessions we can’t stop thinking about.

Recommended reading on possessions:

“The antidote to everything? Hold a ‘Stuff Swap’” by

Ashlee Piper

, The Ethical Edit

“The Truth About Family Heirlooms Your Grandmother Would Tell You” by

Dorena Kohrs

, House Talk

“You Don’t Want That” by

Elizabeth Grey

“What Memento Do You Want to Be Remembered By?” by Demetria Gallegos,

“The Best New Galleries in New York Are in Someone’s Apartment” by Maya Kotomori, Artnet

“What Restaurants Really Do With the Stuff You Leave Behind” by Darron Cardosa, Food and Wine