There is something about collecting things that tugs at my soul. Books. Music. Rocks. Shells. Crystals. Broken hearts. Stray animals. You name it and I have, or have had at some point in my life, a collection.Throughout my home there are clear glass jars in all sizes and shapes filled with seashells and sea glass. I have books and CD’s on shelves, in bookcases, on the mantle of my fireplace. I have containers of sand dollars that date back 12 years or more, waiting for me to use them for a creative project of some kind or another. There are rocks, some smooth, some heart-shaped, some rough, but all caught at my heartstrings for some reason or another.  I have the shadows of broken hearts, some my own, some of people I love, stored safely in compartments in my soul. I started collecting crystals when I was in my twenties and have them displayed in glass pudding cups and ceramic ash trays and clear glass candy dishes on my windowsills and bedside table and anywhere else I can find  a spot where they will fit.

If my mom would have allowed it I would have had a collection of wild animals in my room. As a kid I was so desperate for a pet of my own that I would bring home leopard frogs and salamanders and toads, begging to be allowed to keep them. With a kind and gentle “no” my mom would make me return these creatures to the wild. She seemed to understand my need for something to take care of, but there were just too many kids and not enough room for pets in our house. So she never yelled at me or made me feel bad about wanting to keep my wild friends. She would just say “no” and that was that.

As soon as I could, after moving out on my own, I got a dog. But one dog was not enough. I got a female Bassett hound, knowing I was going to breed her and have litters of puppies. Collections of puppies. And deep down, I knew I would keep some of these puppies. And I did. When all was said and done, I kept two puppies from each litter and then bought a male Bassett hound to continue breeding. In the end, I had to give them all away.

Over the past few years I have become a collector of strays. Cats, in particular. We seem to live in an area where cats are dropped off and somehow, they seem to find their way into my yard. I have taken in four stray cats so far. Only one is still with us. A crippled, gray tiger who took quite a while to warm up to us, but is now the queen of the house. Beating up the dog, a rescue of course, then nuzzling up for affection, she is fickle but loves us.

I am not sure what it is that drives me to keep things as I do. I don’t believe I am compulsive about it. I don’t have my collections cataloged or set up in any particular order around the house. You don’t have to walk over or around my collections so I am not a hoarder. But when you walk into my house you know. You feel me. You can see my personality. The things I value. The things in which I find beauty. The things that bring me joy. I guess these things are just the outward expression of me. My life. My heart. My soul. And I am OK with that.