This past weekend, I enjoyed watching my son and his
fellow musicians compete in a marching competition. Once again, I was astounded
by the creative work of these young people and their directors. I am always
heartened to see the imagination at play.
When my youngest son was a little boy, I frequently
found small stones in his pockets. Apparently, he made a practice of purloining
these items from his preschool playground.
My persistent inquiries into this matter were always met with one simple
statement, “It’s my collection.”
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I’m a bit of a
collector myself—one who gathers odds and ends strewn across life’s playground.
Maybe my son and I share a “collector’s gene”, woven imperceptibly into the
strands of our DNA; and maybe, we are joined to a body of others, who view life
with boundless imagination.
One can only guess why I find bird feathers, rusted bolts,
and paper clips as unlikely, but lovely, catalysts for creativity.
Perhaps, they’re just my collection.
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