The Ring as Memory: A Journey Begins
The moment October arrived, I knew I wanted to mark it with something different—intimate, tactile, and entirely mine. I began what I called a personal jewelry challenge: one ring a day, for thirty days, from my own collection, each accompanied by its backstory. It was not a task of mere cataloging; it was an excavation of emotions, recollections, and quiet philosophies embedded in metal and stone. Rings, after all, are more than circular adornments. They are memories with edges, talismans that trap time, and declarations of who we are or once wished to be.
The first piece I shared was a ring found at an antique show in Miami, boasting aquamarine and sapphire—a pairing that caught my breath. The aquamarine glowed with oceanic clarity, while the sapphire whispered royal secrets from centuries past. Together, they formed a duet of soft rebellion and steadfast grace. I often reflect on how such seemingly opposing tones can sing together so harmoniously. Perhaps this piece resonated so deeply because it mirrored the dualities in me—the dreamer and the realist, the softness and the spine.
Then came a ring that lives at the edge of the cosmos: opal and lapis, a celestial arrangement purchased from a once-beloved antique haunt in Nashville. Its closure only heightened the ring’s significance. That shop, with its creaking wooden floors and velvet-lined drawers, was a haven for those who loved the hunt as much as the find. This particular ring encapsulates not just a color palette but a chapter—an era now shuttered. In its quiet luminescence, I see not just gemstones but the impermanence of all that we treasure. We are constantly writing elegies for places that once nurtured our curiosities.
One ring in my collection exudes theatrical bravado—sleek, sharp, and pointed like a dagger worn on the hand. I discovered it through Eras & Ages Jewelry and it quickly became an emblem of a bolder self I don’t always show. It's like a secret kept in plain sight, a visual wink to the side of me that resists silence, that craves a little chaos. Jewelry can be just that—a mirror held up to the multiple selves we carry, the ones we edit for the world and the ones we quietly tend to in solitude.
Flea markets, with their dusty trays and sun-drenched aisles, have offered me pieces tinged with serendipity. There was the turquoise and diamond cocktail ring found at the Nashville flea market, discovered after hours of rummaging. It brings back the feeling of hopeful fingertips brushing velvet-lined boxes, scanning for a shimmer that feels like fate. Another turquoise ring, this one from Chicago’s Gold Hatpin, holds an inscription: “Cherished Memories 17 Aug 1918 Eddie to Cal.” The engraving hit me like a whisper through time. I don’t know Eddie or Cal, but through this ring, I feel invited into their memory—a moment from over a century ago, still pulsing with sentiment.
From Virtual to Eternal: Rings with Modern Connections
In today’s digital landscape, where most interactions exist at the flick of a thumb, it still surprises me how much emotion can emerge from virtual spaces. One of my favorite additions came through Instagram—a trunk show hosted by the designer Lu Rebuffo. Her pieces spoke in a voice I understood immediately. The connection was quick but lasting, and now her ring lives among my treasures, a reminder that even in the blur of algorithms and digital distraction, genuine artistry can still find its way into your heart.
Social media, with all its contradictions, also brought a theme into my collecting habits. Tuesdays became “turquoise days,” thanks to the playful influence of @hopesparkles. What started as a lighthearted trend grew into a ritual of sorts—turquoise on Tuesdays, a color that lifted my mood and invited the slow unfolding of joy. Sometimes meaning is built quietly, over time, like water wearing away stone. You don’t always realize a tradition is forming until you find yourself missing it.
Not all the rings in my collection came from markets or makers; some came from people. A jade and onyx ring was a birthday gift from my husband—its deep green elegance paired with the inky mystery of onyx, a composition that feels rooted and steady. Another ring came as a quiet gesture of love after I returned home from the hospital—an amethyst and diamond piece that sparkled with more than just beauty. It arrived during a moment when time blurred into the soft haze of new motherhood, sleepless nights, and tender exhaustion. That ring felt like a hand on my shoulder saying, “You are seen.”
These rings were not just given; they were composed with thought, offered as emotional punctuation marks in the story of our life together. They didn’t just arrive—they landed, they lingered. They added new chapters to my evolving self.
One of the most transformative rings in my collection began its life as something entirely different—a vintage brooch. The brooch had sat unused, admired but not worn. I decided to reshape it, to let its elements breathe new life. From it, I created two rings and a pendant. One ring stayed with me, the others were gifted. This act of repurposing wasn’t just a creative impulse—it was a way of practicing emotional alchemy. To take something old and imbue it with fresh significance is to honor both past and present in one sweep.
There’s an intimacy in customizing a piece that once belonged to another era. It allows you to become a co-author in its narrative. Every time I look at that aquamarine cabochon, I feel the echoes of its former brooch form. But I also see me—the choices I made, the desires I followed, the stories I now carry.
Restoration and Resonance: When Rings Become Portals
The final story I’ll share from this leg of the journey is one that reminds me of communal magic—the kind that only happens when strangers come together in small, generous acts. I had purchased a ring that lacked a center stone. Many would have overlooked it as incomplete, broken, perhaps not worth the trouble. But I saw it as a question mark waiting for an answer. I asked my social media followers for ideas, and together we sparked a solution: a diamond from a long-lost earring, recycled and reborn.
What resulted was more than a ring. It was a mosaic of participation, of restoration, of affirmation that beauty can be born from absence. That story touched people, and in turn, their responses touched me. The ring now feels like a community artifact, something made not just for me but by me and others—proof that connection doesn’t require physical presence, only shared intention.
In many ways, each ring in my collection serves as a portal—a tiny monument to a feeling, a place, or a person. These aren’t objects to be rotated through for fashion's sake. They are archives, each holding textures of time and soundless conversations between past and present. When I wear the lapis ring, I feel the city of Nashville echoing in its blues. When I slip on the ring from my husband, I remember how silence can hold tenderness more powerfully than words. And when I clasp the aquamarine ring from the brooch, I feel the fierce joy of reclamation.
Jewelry, when thoughtfully chosen or unexpectedly found, reflects our innermost contours. It reveals our soft spots, our obsessions, our need for permanence in an impermanent world. Some people collect for value. Others for aesthetics. I collect for memory. For breathless moments captured in carats and curves. For conversations with strangers that led to unexpected purchases. For the feeling of knowing a piece was meant for me before I ever touched it.
There’s a quiet revolution in wearing your story. In choosing adornment not just for decoration but for meaning. These rings, in their varied forms, whisper a collective truth: that what we carry with us, quite literally on our hands, can shape how we remember, how we belong, how we live.
When Jewelry Changes Shape, So Do We
Jewelry does not just rest in velvet boxes or on well-lit fingers. It breathes. It transforms. It lives multiple lives—sometimes within a single lifetime, sometimes across generations. It collects fingerprints and stories like a quiet archivist. That’s the way I’ve come to see it: not as a fixed artifact but as a constantly evolving presence that adapts with me.
Take, for example, a ring I discovered adorned with a reddish-orange dyed jade. On its surface, it had flair, even bravado, but it didn’t feel authentic to my evolving taste. I could see that its soul longed for reinvention. I replaced the center with a piece of black onyx, immediately sensing that I had restored balance to something that had once been overstated. The black stone—cool, grounded, and quietly powerful—resonated with me far more. It allowed the surrounding emeralds to assert their presence more coherently. This wasn't just a cosmetic change; it was an emotional one. The ring now mirrored my sensibility—sharp but composed, daring yet thoughtful. In a world that glorifies the new, there is an understated power in repurposing what already exists.
Reinvention has become a running motif in my jewelry journey. Whether it's resetting a gem, reshaping a band, or reimagining a forgotten brooch into a modern ring, I find joy in the slow, almost meditative process of rebirth. These aren’t quick fixes; they are dialogues between past intention and present intuition. A jewelry redesign is not unlike an emotional recalibration—one must ask: What no longer serves me? What still holds meaning?
At the Miami Antique Show—a pilgrimage for those who understand the thrill of provenance—I came across a piece from The Fab Nab. It was magnetic from the first glance, not just because of its design but because of its aura. That ring carries the sensation of discovery fused with the essence of travel: a reminder that meaningful treasures often find us when we leave our familiar coordinates. The question remains whether I’ll bring Gino next year, but this piece has already immortalized that moment in Miami, as crisp and bright in memory as the morning sun filtering through hotel blinds.
These tangible memories, shaped into rings and gemstones, are more than souvenirs. They become coordinates on a map of selfhood, tracing how I have moved through time and space—collecting, editing, reimagining.
Serendipity, Symbolism, and the Rings That Found Me
There are pieces that sneak into your life so quietly you barely remember how they got there—only that now you couldn’t imagine being without them. One such moment came during a collecting dry spell. I was heavily pregnant, grounded physically but restless in spirit. Scrolling late at night, I stumbled upon a ring from Ella’s Vintage Gems. The purchase wasn’t premeditated, nor was it flashy or life-changing. But in that moment—feet swollen, heart full, mind racing—it anchored me. It reminded me of stillness. Of holding space for the present even when your life is about to fracture and blossom in unpredictable ways. That ring did not sparkle particularly brightly, but it glowed with quiet purpose.
Some rings arrive with louder symbolism. I’ve always found snakes compelling—creatures of myth, of medicine, of metamorphosis. A snake ring I acquired from Joint Venture carries that symbolism beautifully. For me, it became a visual invocation of renewal. Sheds its skin, begins again. This coiled ouroboros of gold and gem doesn’t just symbolize change—it embodies it. I wear it during moments of emotional flux, as if asking it to hold my hand through whatever transformation I’m enduring. There’s a comfort in carrying archetypes on your finger.
There are also those designers who feel like chapters in your own book. BCE Jewelry is one of those names etched in mine. Our connection began five years ago, and since then, I’ve made it a ritual to add one of her pieces to my collection annually. This year, the piece that marked our anniversary was not just another acquisition—it was a commemorative act. Time feels slippery these days, and yet this simple tradition has become an anchor. When so much of the world feels accelerated and unmoored, collecting with intention allows me to slow down. BCE’s work reminds me that true craftsmanship is an antidote to chaos—a beautiful, deliberate pause in a life that rarely stands still.
Spontaneity, too, has its place. One night, a friend sent me a random Ruby Lane link—just a nudge of curiosity. I clicked, I browsed, and I discovered a hidden gem, quite literally. The ring wasn’t extravagant or particularly rare, but it spoke. There’s something deeply thrilling about a find that comes unannounced, a ring that wasn’t hunted, but happened upon. It makes you believe in magic, or at least in algorithms that understand your heart better than you expect.
One of the oldest rings in my collection harks back to 2013, from yet another Miami show. Originally, it held a pearl—classic, demure, softly luminous. But as I evolved, so did my taste. That pearl made way for a malachite sphere. The result was bold, unapologetic, deeply green and grounded. This metamorphosis feels personal. Over the last decade, I’ve grown from someone who favored delicate restraint into someone who leans toward statement, toward shadow and weight. This ring didn’t just change in form—it matured with me.
Self-gifting, too, deserves celebration. It’s not indulgence—it’s an act of deep recognition. On my 33rd birthday, I chose an aquamarine and black enamel ring, not because I needed it, but because I wanted to mark a moment. The number felt important—an age of real adulthood, of rootedness and paradoxical reawakening. That ring now symbolizes a kind of sovereignty, a nod to the quiet power of claiming joy for oneself without asking permission.
Malachite, once again, emerges in my collection with a different role. This time, it was a ring purchased in California—light packed, dreams bigger than suitcases. It became my travel companion, my airborne talisman. Malachite has long been considered a stone of transformation and protection. I wear it every time I fly. In its swirls, I see maps, landscapes from above, memories tied to places I’ve been and those I long to reach.
The Art of Alteration: Where Legacy Meets Modern Soul
Redesigning antique jewelry is part restoration, part rebellion. It’s a way of whispering back to the past, “I honor you, but I need you to meet me where I am.” One of my most satisfying projects involved a Victorian bracelet. It was beautiful but rigid in function, more of a display piece than something to live in. I had it transformed into a ring, a process that involved stiffening the once-flexible links and integrating a durable shank. The result? A piece that now breathes with utility while still carrying the DNA of its former self. It’s proof that history can bend without breaking—that legacies can evolve and still remain sacred.
The more I alter, the more I understand this strange dual role I play: preservationist and futurist. I want to honor the techniques of the past, the hands that soldered and set with care. But I also want to make these pieces mine—to live with them, not just look at them.
Among the newest pieces to join my repertoire is a diamond ring with an elongated cut—another in a lineage that is slowly becoming a sub-collection. Someone jokingly asked if I already had a dozen like it. Maybe I do. But love doesn’t require novelty; it requires resonance. I am not collecting things. I am collecting variations of feelings. And if a particular cut or design repeats itself in my life, perhaps it’s because it continues to echo a truth I haven’t yet tired of hearing.
We all have forms we are drawn to—silhouettes, stones, colors that become motifs in our personal mythologies. To dismiss that repetition as redundancy is to misunderstand how emotional resonance works. We return to certain aesthetics the way poets return to familiar metaphors. The elongated diamond shape, in its architectural elegance, speaks to something linear in me—perhaps a longing for direction, for clarity, for endless potential.
Jewelry, at its best, does not decorate; it narrates. These rings have become my storytellers, each one a paragraph, a turning point, a footnote. They document reinventions, they crystallize travels, they encapsulate transformation. And in moments when words feel inadequate or memory feels fragile, I can slip a ring onto my finger and remember. Not just the purchase or the provenance—but who I was then, what I felt, and how far I’ve come.
Echoes in Gold: The Emotional Weight of Inscriptions and Intent
Jewelry, at its core, is never just ornament. It is emotional residue rendered in gold, enamel, and gemstone. It is a silent witness to moments often too fleeting for language. When I slip a ring onto my hand, I’m not just accessorizing—I’m resurrecting a feeling, a person, a version of myself. This became especially clear with one of my earliest acquisitions from the Miami Antique Show. The ring had an engraved, adjustable shank that simply read “to Alice,” its cursive script swirling with an intimacy that felt almost too sacred to wear. Yet I wear it often.
That inscription—barely a few letters—carries the emotional voltage of an entire era. Who was Alice? Who loved her enough to inscribe her name with such flourish? Did she wear it proudly or tuck it away in a drawer like a forgotten secret? The unknowns only deepen my bond to it. I feel like a curator of someone else's love story, holding the echo of a sentiment that outlived its speaker. Engraved jewelry is not just personalized—it is immortalized. In those tiny hand-etched letters lies a kind of tenderness that transcends time, reaching out like a whisper from the past to say, "This mattered."
Sentiment isn’t always obvious in a piece—it sometimes unfolds slowly, layered over time. But when a ring already carries an origin story so intricately human, it stops being just a ring. It becomes a relic of the soul.
This is why antique shows, particularly the Miami Antique Show, are more than shopping experiences for me. They are emotional excavation sites. They allow me to search for these unspoken legacies, to find objects where emotion clings like perfume to silk. These events are not transactional—they are transcendental. You don't just go to acquire; you go to remember what it feels like to discover, to be surprised, to find something that inexplicably belongs to you.
The Ritual of the Hunt and the Stories That Surface
There’s something sacred about the hunt—the focused hum in your mind when you scan rows of velvet boxes, the gentle thrill of lifting a lid, the heartbeat that quickens when your eyes meet a piece that calls to you without reason. That sensation never gets old. It's why I return to the Miami Antique Show year after year. One of the most memorable pieces I found there was from Tenenbaum Jewelers. Its design was timeless, yes, but what imprinted itself into memory was the act of finding it. There’s an intimacy to a successful hunt—the sense that you were meant to meet this piece, that time conspired for your paths to cross.
These shows have become rituals. Not just annual dates on my calendar but milestones in the emotional chronology of my life. I remember who I was each time I attended—what I was yearning for, what I had just let go of. Rings, for me, have become the punctuation marks in those chapters. At the 2017 show, I stumbled across a turquoise and black enamel ring from Haigs of Rochester. Every time I wear it, I’m not simply recalling the ring’s aesthetic—I’m inhabiting the very mood of that year. I remember the friends I traveled with, the meals we shared, the hopes that hung unsaid in the air. The ring is a portal, not an accessory.
Antique shows operate like miniature time machines. You enter them carrying the present but leave with fragments of other lives—stories told in carat weight and filigree. There’s always the possibility that a piece you take home has witnessed love, war, reinvention, abandonment. Perhaps that’s what makes wearing antique jewelry so transcendent—it’s an unspoken collaboration between your story and the ones that came before it.
Of course, modern platforms have created their own kind of hunting grounds. Instagram, that ever-scrolling scroll of curated lives and collectible moments, has surprisingly become my new-age antique show. It lacks the tactile thrill of holding a ring in hand, but it compensates with breadth and immediacy. Through a post by Rebecca Fogg, I discovered a garnet ring that felt steeped in mystery. I decided to customize it, introducing turquoise, opal, and lapis to its narrative. Each gem added was chosen not for aesthetics alone but for their symbolism—turquoise for protection and creativity, opal for intuition and subtle rebellion, and lapis for serenity and truth. That combination felt alchemical, like brewing a personal potion to wear on my finger.
The power of customization cannot be overstated. It allows you to redirect a ring’s narrative arc, making it less about provenance and more about presence. By choosing those stones, I didn’t just modify a ring—I turned it into a prayer I could wear.
Some of my favorite finds came from places far more unexpected. The Murfreesboro Antique Show, not as grand as Miami’s, gifted me one of the most cherished pieces in my collection: an Art Nouveau turquoise ring. What made it remarkable wasn’t just the piece itself but the story attached to it. The seller confessed that it had been part of her personal collection for decades. That disclosure changed everything. The intimacy of that admission made me feel as if she were entrusting me with something sacred, like a guardian passing on a key. Knowing that the ring had been loved before, not just possessed, transformed it into something living. Jewelry becomes more than metal and stone when it has felt the warmth of sentiment.
Quiet Companions and the Unassuming Beauty of Everyday Wear
Not all rings shout for attention. Some merely hum with quiet perfection. One of the most wearable rings in my collection comes from Kabana Jewelry. It isn’t ornate. It doesn’t boast a rare gem or an elaborate silhouette. It is sleek, minimal, and infinitely versatile. Its power lies in its restraint. I reach for it without thinking. It has become part of my daily uniform, a silent witness to the ordinary rhythms of life. These are the pieces that often go unnoticed by others but never go unfelt by the wearer.
This ring taught me something invaluable: not all beauty is performative. Some of it is internalized, wrapped in the privacy of personal joy. There’s a different kind of intimacy in wearing something that doesn’t beg to be admired but still makes you feel complete. It’s the jewelry equivalent of a favorite sweater—unassuming, but deeply beloved.
There’s a misconception that sentimental value must be loud or extravagant. But some of the most emotionally charged pieces in my collection are the simplest. They aren’t memorable because of where they came from or how much they cost. They matter because of what they witnessed—the long walks, the silent meals, the ordinary days that stitched themselves into extraordinary memories. Jewelry, in this sense, becomes a diary without words.
Each piece, whether dramatic or discreet, plays its part in the orchestra of personal history. The dramatic rings might score the crescendos, but the quieter pieces fill in the pauses, the breaths, the transitions. They are the ones you wear on a Monday morning when you don’t quite feel yourself, or on a rainy afternoon when comfort is the only style that matters.
The deeper I dive into this collection journey, the more I realize that I’m not just building a jewelry wardrobe—I’m building a psychological landscape. Some pieces represent who I hope to be, others reflect who I once was, and a rare few manage to capture both simultaneously. That Kabana ring, in its modesty, reminds me of the parts of myself I don’t broadcast but deeply value—constancy, clarity, groundedness.
There’s a particular kind of peace in reaching for the same ring each day. In a world that values novelty and disruption, repetition becomes its own act of rebellion. It’s a choice to root oneself in the familiar, to find joy not in the new but in the known. That’s what this ring gives me—not dazzle, but depth.
Jewelry as Autobiography: The Story Beneath the Setting
As the final day of this month-long ritual arrived, I found myself reflecting less on the rings themselves and more on what they had revealed. Not just about design or provenance, but about me—my emotional terrain, my aesthetic instincts, my evolution. What began as a personal challenge, a creative experiment to post one ring a day from my collection, quietly became an exercise in autobiographical storytelling. And not the kind with plotlines or milestones, but the subtler kind: stories of mood, of memory, of becoming.
Each ring I shared represented a snapshot. A precise flash of identity in flux. Some chronicled joy, like the one I bought to mark my 33rd birthday. Others held echoes of loss, like the Victorian bracelet-turned-ring that once hung loosely around another’s wrist before being reshaped for my own hand. Some were given in love. Others were reclaimed in solitude. In the swirl of gemstones and enamel, I found an unspoken timeline—one not measured in years, but in feeling.
Rings, more than other types of jewelry, are intimate. They are worn on the hands—on fingers that work, that hold, that express. Unlike earrings or necklaces, which may be seen by others more than the wearer, rings are ours to view again and again. They’re companions in our most mundane and most monumental moments alike. They are glanced at during traffic lights, turned gently during hard conversations, kissed unconsciously in moments of quiet gratitude or prayer. The stories they carry, then, are layered—external and internal, personal and projected.
This journey taught me that jewelry does not decorate; it documents. That to collect is to confess. These rings chronicled far more than I realized. They charted who I was and who I am becoming. They gave form to feelings I hadn’t yet articulated. And they did so without demanding attention, only presence.
The Radical Joy of Holding Time in Your Hands
We live in an era that prizes speed and disposability. The faster we can scroll, consume, discard, and replace, the more productive we’re considered. Within this culture of ephemeral everything, to pause and hold something old—really hold it, admire its worn edges and lived-in beauty—is not just quaint. It is radical.
There’s an honesty to antique and vintage jewelry that modern minimalism sometimes strips away. These rings do not apologize for their detail, their drama, or their history. They are not pared down or sanitized. They have lived other lives, touched other hands, heard other confessions. And now they live with me, not just as objects of beauty but as witnesses.
Throughout this thirty-day practice, I realized that the daily act of sharing a ring—photographing it, writing about it, remembering its backstory—was not merely about creating content. It was about reclamation. Reclaiming the analog joy of storytelling in a world increasingly dependent on algorithm. Reclaiming the connection between person and object, between memory and metal. Reclaiming the right to slow down.
Each morning became an invitation to reflect. The ritual of choosing the ring, sitting with it, letting it guide the words—it quieted the noise. I wasn’t just telling the story of a ring; I was tending to the story of my own interior life. I was remembering who gave what, where I found it, what mood I was in that day, what drew me to that shape or stone or setting. And in that remembering, I saw how often we forget the small moments that make us who we are.
We treat meaning as something to be earned, sought in great journeys or grand declarations. But this practice reminded me that meaning often lives in the overlooked—in the flea market stumble, the late-night Instagram scroll, the quiet act of gifting something to yourself. A ring can hold a lifetime in its circumference. To hold one thoughtfully is to hold time.
Thoughtful Adornment as a Living Legacy
In a society where fashion is increasingly about rapid turnover, where trends are commodified and discarded at breakneck speed, the act of building a deeply personal, meaningful jewelry collection feels almost subversive. It is a slow-burning form of devotion—one that privileges resonance over relevance, depth over dazzle. To collect rings not as commodities but as chronicles is to say, “I value what lasts. I honor what lingers.”
Here is where the deep thought paragraph blooms into full voice:
In an era marked by ephemeral consumption and fleeting trends, the act of curating a personal jewelry collection stands as a form of defiance and devotion. Antique and vintage rings, particularly, serve as conduits of memory—bridging past and present, emotion and adornment. Each piece is a miniature monument, telling stories of love, change, survival, or simply aesthetic delight. The value lies not only in the gems themselves but in their provenance, their imperfections, their ability to carry sentiment across time. These rings are more than adornments; they are emotional architecture. They provide structure to the intangible. They are built on grief, on joy, on chance. For those seeking sustainable luxury, meaningful accessories, or style rooted in substance, there is no greater joy than discovering a ring that feels like it was waiting for you all along. This is not just collecting—it is storytelling in sterling, gold, and stone. It is the radical act of anchoring identity in something tangible, something time-worn, something real.
In the past thirty days, I didn’t just share jewelry. I shared myself. Not all at once, but in shards and glimmers. A ring that made me feel brave. One that made me feel held. Another that reminded me of a version of myself I’d long since outgrown. Some people write journals. Some take photographs. I collect rings—and in doing so, I document the seasons of my becoming.
And so, here they are. Thirty rings. Thirty days. Thirty windows into an evolving mosaic of style, memory, and emotion. Some are humble, others ornate. Some are as light as a whisper, others heavy with narrative. But each one has left a mark. Each one has said: I was here. I mattered. I held something meaningful.
In a world chasing after what’s next, these rings anchor me in what was, and in doing so, help me see what is. I don’t know if I’ll ever do another thirty-day challenge. But I do know that every time I open my jewelry box, I’ll see not just sparkle, but story. Not just ornament, but origin.
Because the truth is simple and profound: we don’t just wear jewelry. We carry it. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, it carries us back.