One overcast March morning, I was walking the trails of Camp Orchid, and a thought popped into my head in full sentences: I am a collector. I find meaning in little things. I’m a keeper of memories.
During that past winter in Seattle, I was afraid I’d end up homeless, since I was due to be evicted and none of the jobs I’d applied for had come through. I used a gift certificate to buy a photo album. It had a padded, soft, light blue cover with a sun and stars stitched in dark blue.
I dumped out a box of cards, emails, bookmarks, photos, little art projects, ticket stubs, letters, postcards, even post-it notes that people had sent me. I spread its contents out on the rug and spent a few weeks putting it all into the photo album in an artistically pleasing way.
I was almost homeless and I was making a scrapbook.
I’ve been talking a lot about “Lights in the Distance,” my essay that’s being considered over at Creative Nonfiction. I thought maybe a little sliver would be nice. It’s split into thirteen sections and this is the third one.