my collection

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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