(Hi Grandma and Grandpa! They read this blog sometimes. My grandpa calls it my 'blob'.)
I received a new music box on every birthday until I turned 20. Today they sit in my parents' basement, in crumbling boxes gathering dust, until I ship them across the ocean or return to Canada someday. I have aspirations to display them in a quirky cabinet in the home-library of my dreams.
This collection is finite: It began, it ended, and now it is.
I collect art, too. This is no unwitting collection. Each piece has a place in the timeline of my short life, a geographic marker on the map of my travels. This is an addictive collection. It is added to and subtracted from, it will end only when I end.
It never is, it is always becoming.
I think everyone collects something. You're here, so maybe you collect blogs?
Collecting is, in no insignificant way, a part of what makes us human: The accumulation of things, tangible or not.
Although we often associate collectors with wealth (big houses and bigger pay checks) or eccentricity (collectors of belly button lint and barf bags come to mind) they need not be. Consider the Vogels, made extraordinary by their very ordinariness.
You can learn more about Herb & Dorothy in this documentary.
So tell me: Are you a collector?
I want to know about your collection.
Where did it start and where does it end?