If This Object Could Talk: The Tibetan Singing Bowl

We don’t throw away things that have stories behind them. Some things stay with us because they mean more than just their physical form. For me, it’s my Tibetan singing bowl. I found it on the Langtang Trek in Nepal, and I was told to choose the one that “spoke to me.” I didn’t just pick a bowl—I picked the one that felt right, that had purpose beyond its superficial appearance.

I carried it with me through the trek, in my backpack, for months. Later, it traveled with me to New York City—first on Central Park West, then John Street, Broad Street, and Harlem. It moved with me, staying close, a touchstone of where I’d been and where I was going. Now, it’s in Rhode Island, still part of my life. The bowl has been with me through my changes, my calm, and my chaos. It’s seen me at my best and worst. It’s not just a thing; it’s part of my history.

We all have objects like this. We keep them because they speak to us in a way that goes beyond their material value. They become part of our story, whether it’s a family heirloom, a lamp that reminds us of home, or a book we can’t let go of.

Over time, we all become collectors—sometimes even experts—on certain things, whether it’s jewelry, shoes, watches, or something as specific as salt and pepper shakers. But these items don’t define us. If you had to flee a burning building, what would you take, besides your loved ones, pets, and photographs?

What objects truly reflect who we are and where we’ve been? And what would they say about you? If my singing bowl could talk, it would tell you about the places it’s been—about my years in New York City, the quiet moments in Harlem, and now, Rhode Island. It would share stories about the people it’s met and the energy it’s carried. One day, it might find its next person—whether one of my children, grandchildren, or someone else who feels the same connection I did. But for now, it stays with me, part of my journey.