Collecting Our Character

Treasure Hunting. Betrayal. Pebble Stone Bread.

Dear Starlight, 

Secret fact: I am a treasure hunter. It runs in my family.

Yesterday morning, our tiny town had its annual town-wide yard sale. The firehouse grills hotdogs, and the neighbors on the far right and far left swap tea kettles and pool floaties. Children find just the toy they've been wanting a few blocks down from their own house at the old lady's painted pink house. There is something humbling, vulnerable, joyful, and exquisite in these exchanges of objects—maybe even soulful—as we swap our values with one another.

I dipped my toes into the playful charade despite not needing a single thing more for my home or closets. I danced around the neighborhood, trying to temper the itchy mania of imagining a treasure under every heap of wares. 

I slowly amassed a small pile of items that initially seemed random. Once home, I heaped the pile onto the table and took a good look at the nuggets I picked up one at a time: a candlestick set, a quilt, some woven wool shawls, a silk kimono. As my eyes settled and I spent a few more moments touching the tactile handmade items, I started to feel increased appreciation for both the items and my eye for noticing them. Falling in love.

Suddenly, the randomness disappeared, and everything fit into a pattern. I ALWAYS choose these things! In fact, these items fit what can now be called collections in my home: handmade quilts, Kimono, shawls, tall unusual candlestick holders…I am only missing a good mixing bowl, antique book and peculiar rock to complete my collection loop. 

One question is: Now that an item is no longer one special thing but in a family of like, is it less remarkable? A second question is: Why these particular items? Why my glitch of continuing to grab red royal wool shawls with hand embroidery? A third question is: What is the story of the character who has these items? It's a mystery for me.

….

I almost had a tearful moment. As happens in vulnerable exchanges of values. The man selling Kimonos only accepted cash. He was antique. I only had enough money on hand to purchase one Kimono. I asked that he hold another for me so I might return home to get more dollars and return. He agreed. 

I drove home, did a quick dish wash, and then returned with money for my Kimono. When I arrived happily with fresh cash, the man sheepishly said, "Oh! I just sold the Kimono, I wasn't sure you'd be back. Uh…they just left. It was only five minutes ago." "My Kimono? The one you were holding for me?" "It was only five minutes ago." I gave him a look (as if the five minutes mattered?), turned on my heel, chanting a quick mantra, "You didn't need it anyway,"  and then felt the sting of betrayal. I hate to admit it, but I did feel a little like crying. As I drove away, I also kept my eyes on the innocent fellow shoppers I passed, imagining I might see the person who "stole" my Kimono. You know, it had already become my Kimono when I and the old man made the agreement it was. 

….

One of the books I am reading is 'The Gift' by Marcel Mauss. It is an ethnographic and philosophical examination of value exchange via gifting. In the study, the power of the gift is often less in the utility of the object but rather in the shared expectations, symbology, and assigned power embedded in the object. The exchanged objects are tokens of sacred agreements and trust between people.

The old dude seriously broke my trust, and my lust for one more silky thing was squandered. Yet, I understand why he sold it out from under our agreement. Our capitalistic relationships with one another are not built on mutual trust and benefit; they are built on the belief that we are doing what's best for ourselves, alone, at all costs. That's the modus operandi until we are brave enough to change it and rebuild trust as a collective.

…

I'm back to my pile of treasures. I remain curious about why I am drawn to what I am drawn to. 

As I imagine the story of my collection, I adore the character more and more. Her in her red shawls and patterned Kimonos, lighting lots of candles, too many candles, tucking up under quilts that many women pieced together from former garments, with a good book in hand and dough rising in a bowl, ready to make pebble stone bread.

What is the story of you through your collections?