We often look for magic in the monumental—the grand thresholds, the celestial transits, or the dramatic shifts in our lifelines. Yet, for me, the deepest, most resilient magic often quietens itself. This is because magic chooses to dwell within the small, domestic corners of our daily lives. Magic often lives in ordinary objects that carry the unmistakable shimmer of the human soul.
Growing up on a vast 700-acre horse stud in rural Australia, my world was framed by eucalyptus-clad mountains. It was beautiful (in a ruggedly Aussie landscape way), yet physically isolated. This was an era before mobile phones and the Internet. So, when I say we lived ‘in the middle of nowhere’, that’s the truth.
I have Liselotte’s hands
I never met my German grandmothers Minna (paternal) and Liselotte (maternal). They existed to me as stories and names whispered across oceans. They were my ancestral threads waiting to be pulled.
Currently, I am deep in the sacred process of researching my ancestry no doubt motivated by my mother’s death last year. I’m unravelling the rich, complex tapestry of the women who came before me. This journey requires walking alongside ghosts and asking them to guide my pen and my heart.
Recently, the archive pages from a German register office revealed a heartbreaking, heavy truth. Although I have long known my mother experienced the shocking grief of three siblings dying in infancy, it was only a few days ago that I discovered the names, birth dates, and dates of death of three of Liselotte’s babies.
My mother was born at the start of WWII. Her siblings were born and died during these dark years. Two of those precious souls died at just one day old. The third slipped away at six weeks. I remember my mother telling me about the raw grief of that time, and the unbearable ache of my grandmother’s empty arms. To hold those stark dates on paper is to sit in the quiet shadow of an immense, historical grief. I wonder how her hands and heart coped with the weight of such profound loss.
That Liselotte is laughing in this photo with my grandfather Erwin, Aunty Carole, Uncle Peter, and my mother (white dress), makes me so happy. To know she was able to laugh again, even after the deaths of three babies, brings comfort.
Because words and ritual are the medicine I carry, I’m going to create a beautiful memorial ceremony for those three babies. I plan to place dedicated plaques in my garden, here in Cumbria, to honour them and to hold space for my grandmother’s unspoken sorrow. In giving them a physical place of remembrance, I’m anchoring their memory into the earth, ensuring they are no longer lost to the passing of time.
Lineage isn’t just found in archives or stark statistics. It’s also found in what has been left behind.
This potholder was crocheted by my Oma Liselotte.
For years, a simple yellow and white crocheted potholder has lived in my kitchen just by the sink. This way I can see it whenever I wash up. Crafted by the hands of my Oma Liselotte, it is one of the most precious things I own. Even though she was a woman I never hugged, and whose voice I never heard, every time I touch this potholder, I engage in a sacred domestic ritual. Through that humble square of yarn, her hands protect mine. Decades later, her creative energy is still alive in my kitchen. This is the true definition of everyday magic. A mundane kitchen tool becomes a portal of love, connection, and ancestral healing. I hold close, too, the biological truth: I was an egg in my grandmother’s womb. We are connected through time and space.
Distance has a way of prompting its own unique language of devotion. My other grandmother, Minna, poured her love into parcels that crossed the seas. In her corner of the world in Kiel, Germany, she would crochet pretty pink and orange dresses for me. She wrapped them carefully in thick brown paper, shipping them across the world to me in Australia. The blistering, Sun-baked climate of my childhood was never quite conducive to heavy, woollen dresses. Yet, the impracticality of the garments mattered very little. The love was palpable, felt in the rhythm of every single stitch.
Our domestic lives are brimming with sacred history. Stitched dresses and worn potholders are the artifacts of the matriarchs. They are the tiny anchors holding the stories of women who navigated deep transitions and survival. When I wrote my latest novel, Grandmother’s Button Tin, I held close the knowledge that when we open an old tin, we aren’t just looking at haberdashery. We are holding our grandmother’s magic.
An Invitation
As you move through your home today, look closer at the ordinary objects resting on your shelves. What quiet medicine are they holding for you?
Veronika Sophia Robinson
Author, Novelist, & Weaver of Word Medicine
🤍 🤍 🤍
You are warmly invited to step further into my literary sanctuary. Explore the complete collection of fiction and non-fiction books at Starflower Press, or discover the living map of your soul with a personal astrology reading at The Oracle. My celebrant training and celebrant masterclasses can be found at Heart-led Celebrants.
