My great-grandmother was a painter. She picked it up late in life, but she produced dozens

and dozens of oil paintings once she hit her stride. They're mostly still life studies

and landscapes. They're not Dutch masters by any stretch of the imagination, but to our

family, they're precious. They connect us to her. Because of this, those paintings have

become a centerpiece of her extended family. Generation after generation now makes room

on their walls for as many of these framed treasures as they can acquire. People have

a way of becoming attached to things. Maybe it's the long journey that these objects

accompany us on through our lives, or perhaps it's due to the feelings they can invoke

when we see them or touch them. Or maybe deep down, we understand that even though

our lives might be fleeting and temporary, these things, these objects we grow to love

and revere seem to live on after we're gone.

This habit of attributing personality and emotion to our possessions is something known

as anthropomorphism. We give human characteristics to things that are far from human. Some people

name their cars and talk to them like an old friend. Others will say that their house

has a lot of nervous energy. They don't, but at the same time, they do. You know?

The best place to see this practice in action is in the presence of children. The toys

they cherish, the ones that follow them from room to room, were laying their laps on

long car rides, or get pulled under the covers with them at bedtime. Those objects take

on a personality of their own. Oftentimes, it's just a game. Other times, it's a coping

mechanism for loss or fear. But sometimes, on very rare occasions, these objects seem

to set the rules themselves. They pick their own personality, they guide the children's

decisions, as if someone or something were controlling them.

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