Because life's little headaches make us appreciate the good times.
Wednesday, January 3, 2018
Recently I ran across the following reflection on collectors written by Larry Erickson: However defective, collectors are poets, people who deal in metaphors and symbolism. The pieces we treasure may have limited practical value. The treasure is in their meaning, in the times and people they represent, in the mysteries they hold and the answers they yield.
The words leaped off the page and encircled my imagination. If I am a poet, what words and meaning can be given to what I collect? It is not hard to decipher that my metaphors one by one lead me home.
There is home in the crockery mixing bowls that line my shelves. Home in the wooden boxes that hold heirloom silverware that has graced many a family holiday table through decades. There is home in the baby utensils that hang on the metal tree in my bedroom; and home in the old toys scattered throughout our house despite the absence of children.
I must be a collector. As Erikson suggests my possessions hold very little value to anyone other than me; but they represent home and the people I have loved. And in this world, I have no greater treasure.