When Meaning Feels Fluid: A Dialogue on Wearing Symbols Without Certainty

I've been looking at this pendant for weeks now. Not continuously, but in moments. When the browser tab resurfaces between work tasks. When I'm avoiding starting something difficult. When I wonder what it would feel like to wear something daily that doesn't announce itself but simply accompanies.

The hesitation is quiet, not dramatic. It's not "Should I spend this money?" or "Will it look good?" Those questions have answers, or at least methods for finding answers. This hesitation is different. It's about meaning, but not in the way people usually mean when they say "meaning."

Some symbols come with dictionaries. Crosses, stars, lotus flowers—they have histories, interpretations, established meanings. You can learn what they "mean" and then decide if that meaning aligns with yours. The water drop is different. Yes, it has cultural appearances: Buddhist metaphors, scientific diagrams, artistic representations. But its meaning feels... fluid. Literally.

That fluidity is what draws me and gives me pause simultaneously. A symbol with fixed meaning is like a signed contract: I agree to these terms. A symbol with fluid meaning is more like a conversation: it might go anywhere, change over time, surprise me.

Which raises the question: who gets to decide what a symbol means for the person wearing it? Is it the culture that originated it? The artisan who shaped it? The wearer who interprets it daily? Or some combination that shifts with context?

I think about wearing it to work. Someone might ask, "What's that symbolize?" And I'd have to answer. But what would I say? "Water" feels too simple. "Fluidity" sounds pretentious. "I just like the shape" feels dishonest, because it's not just the shape. It's what the shape suggests.

Maybe that's the tension: between private resonance and public explanation. Some things resonate deeply but resist translation into words. Putting them into words feels like pinning a butterfly—you preserve it but kill what made it beautiful.

So do I wear it and risk questions I can't answer well? Or do I keep it private, wearing it under clothing where only I know it's there? But then, if no one sees it, does that change the experience of wearing it?

I notice my assumptions here: that wearing a symbolic object means something. That it should mean something. That if it doesn't have clear meaning, I'm doing it wrong somehow.

But what if the meaning emerges from the wearing, not precedes it? What if I put it on without knowing what it means, and over months, through the daily fact of its presence, meaning accumulates like patina on bronze?

That feels risky. What if the meaning that accumulates is disappointing? What if after six months I realize it just reminds me of a difficult time, or worse, means nothing at all?

Then I'd have wasted... what, exactly? Money, yes, but that's minor. Time? Attention? The opportunity to have chosen something with clearer significance?

But maybe "wasted" is the wrong word. Maybe the process itself—of wearing something, observing what meanings arise or don't, noticing my own expectations and disappointments—that process is the value. Not the end result of having a meaningful object, but the practice of relating to an object and seeing what happens.

That feels simultaneously freeing and unnerving. Freeing because it takes the pressure off: I don't have to choose "correctly." Unnerving because without the pressure of correctness, I'm left with my own genuine, unguided response.

Which is scarier: choosing wrong, or choosing without external validation?

I think about the physical object itself. Resin, not precious stone. Golden accent, not solid gold. White beads, not pearls. It's honest about what it is: crafted, not mined; suggestive, not declarative; companionable, not precious.

That honesty appeals to me. It doesn't pretend to be ancient wisdom or magical protection. It's just a shaped piece of material that references water. The reference might be enough. Not as a symbol with capital-S Symbolism, but as a reminder: things flow, things change, things hold shape temporarily.

Maybe that's the kind of meaning I can live with: gentle, non-dogmatic, more question than answer. A meaning that doesn't tell me what to think but occasionally reminds me that I'm thinking.

When worn daily, I imagine it would become familiar. The cool morning feeling, the gradual warming, the weight that's noticeable then forgotten then noticed again. These sensory experiences might become their own meaning: the meaning of consistency, of gentle presence, of something that doesn't demand but simply is.

Or they might not. They might just be sensory experiences, no deeper than the feeling of a chair against your back or socks on your feet.

Can I be okay with that? With an object that might remain simply an object, beautiful but not transformative, present but not profound?

Our culture tells us everything should be profound. Every purchase should be "life-changing," every object should "spark joy," every choice should align with our "authentic self." What if some things are just... things? Well-made, thoughtful, but ultimately just material arranged in space?

Maybe that's enough. Maybe an object that doesn't promise transformation is more honest than one that does. Maybe a symbol that doesn't dictate meaning is more respectful than one that does.

I think about putting it on for the first time. The clasp clicking shut, the weight settling, the cool resin against my skin. That moment would be just physics: metal fastening, mass distributing, heat transferring.

But it would also be a choice: I chose this object to accompany me. Not because it completes me or represents me or transforms me, but because... I was drawn to it. For reasons I understand partly and partly don't.

That feels like the most honest reason of all: not full understanding, but genuine draw. Not certainty, but curiosity.

The curiosity might be enough. To wear it and see what happens. To notice what meanings arise, if any. To observe my own expectations, projections, disappointments, surprises.

The pendant itself won't care. It will just be resin shaped like a water drop, strung with white beads, with a golden accent catching light sometimes. It will warm to body temperature, cool overnight, swing with movement, exist.

My job, if I choose it, would be to exist alongside it. Not to extract meaning from it, but to coexist with it. To let meaning be something that happens between us, not something it possesses and I receive.

That feels like a different kind of relationship to objects. Not ownership, not utility, not symbolism—but companionship. Two things existing in proximity, affecting each other in small ways (heat transfer, wear patterns), telling no story except the physical one of shared time.

Maybe that physical story is enough. Maybe it's more than enough. Maybe in a world full of narratives—personal brands, life stories, ideological commitments—a simple physical coexistence is the quietest rebellion.

I look at the pendant again. The curve of the drop, the matte beads, the subtle gold. It doesn't ask for anything. It doesn't promise anything. It just offers its form.

Perhaps my hesitation isn't a problem to solve. Perhaps it's the appropriate response to something that respects my autonomy enough not to persuade me.

The decision can wait. The question can remain open. The pendant will still be there tomorrow, unchanged, undemanding.

And I will be here, considering. Not stuck, but suspended. Like a water drop that hasn't fallen yet, full of potential direction, holding light, waiting for gravity or choice or time to decide what happens next.

The dialogue doesn't end here. It continues in the space between looking and choosing, between wondering and wearing, between meaning as something we find and meaning as something we allow.

Some questions aren't meant to be answered. They're meant to be lived with. The pendant, if chosen, would become a companion to that living-with. Not an answer, but a fellow questioner.

Perhaps that's what I've been hesitating about all along: not whether to have answers, but whether to make peace with questions.

The pendant swings gently in its digital image. I watch it. I breathe. I don't decide.

Not yet.