Small clutches of treasure make up the landscape of our home. Our windowsills are dotted with child-size mittfulls of amber colored polished stones. Pants pockets are lined with an assortment of pebbles, stray buttons, a few coins, some dice. Random vessels are strewn about, housing these priceless treasures. Wallets or jars or envelopes are stuffed with the same as we rush out the door to head into town; these portable collections are no less necessary for travel than the diaper bag or water bottle or even car keys. Upon napping, the clutches are placed for safe-keeping alongside the bed.
I’ve tried to capture some of these random, fleeting landscapes over the past couple of weeks, tried to record for our posterity the gradual migration of our driveway into the house, handful by handful, each prettier than the last.
I try to remember my own childhood fascination with stones, my own tendency to collect little things. I try especially hard after stepping on the forgotten stones that often dot the kitchen floor. I struggle with the lofty intention of supporting her exploration while still maintaining a shred of sanity. Or at the very least, a tidy kitchen table.