Can't Say I Owner Her

I own my car, my bike.  I've owned a house.  I owned my first sailboat, a Laser.  I've even owned Ruby, my beloved 1983 red Porsche 911 SC Targa.  But I cannot say I own Nirvana.  

I mean, I cannot speak or write the word "own" to describe my relationship to this boat.

It's a deep psychological thing.  My subconscious bubbles up to block the thought and prevent me from uttering it.  I have gotten the words out once or twice, but it felt so wrong, so awkward.

It's not due to a sense of shame.  I would have expected to be so proud to say, "I owner her." Rather, it is some deep sense that there is something there that rises to the level of a soul or spirit or personality.  I don't equate it to a human one, though I freely use the pronoun "her."  But not just because of nautical tradition.  Nirvana is feminine, feline like a great cat. Powerful and curvatious.  Fine featured and graceful.  

Bit it is not her looks that make her unique to me.  It's her soul.  Something that has emerged from her otherwise inanimate features and materials.  A whole that is greater than the parts that make up her hull, spars and machinery.  A body that is more than just her frames, planks, floors and decks. 

I know anthropomorphism is an innate human tendency.  And it is not quite that I am attributing human forms and qualities to her.   But if something innate can get into your psychology like this, then there is a there, there.  Right?