I am obsessed with bottles. Not because I like bottles all that much, it’s because I like to put things in them. I collect do-dads, trinkets, little bits of shiny things, mostly broken, mostly discarded and I put them in bottles. Lots of bottles. Maybe 20. So that’s probably not too crazy.
Like bits of broken glass battered by the ocean, shells of all sizes and shapes, broken pocket watches with the innards scattered about, buttons, beads, metal bits of broken jewelry, rocks and acorns, whatever catches my eye and I deem collectible. Whatever I think still has some use. I like to collect all of these things because who else will? Who else will see the beauty in the old rusty hinge at the Goodwill. No one. Except me.
Over the years, I have made things out of these discarded gems. A necklace. A pendant. I’ve hung things on my walls. I like the way it feels to surround myself with old, battered, useful, worn things. I take comfort in it. These things were once lost in the world. Discarded. And I found them. What beauty they hold!
It feels like redemption. Like the unlikely kid that makes the winning touchdown. Like the battered woman who gets away. Like the old man who sees the ocean for the first time. Like being made new again. Like second chances. Like one last shot to make it right.
Maybe I’m like those old little trinkets. A little battered, a little worn, a little lost. Not always, but sometimes. I’ve been rescued more than a few times, sometimes by my own devices, sometimes by another person, and sometimes by powers I can’t even fully imagine. I like second chances. I like redemption. I like when all seems lost, but then its found again. I like old bits of broken things in bottles scattered about my home, surrounding me. Reminding me that there’s always one more chance.