Container Art. Containment Art. Whatever it is, the symbolism is clear. I've been collecting containers, all shapes and sizes, for a very long time.
See the little wooden box, next to the pig? It was the first. My bio dad made it, in his garage workshop, in a suburb of Austin, Texas. He gave it to me when I was seven (ish). An apology-gift that arrived while I was dusting the lion's feet. He bent down, peered under the dining room table and held it out in his hand. A silent offering, with the hint of an entreating look.
I've been holding onto that box for thirty years. It still contains his apology, and his touch.
So, finally, I understand that it's time to unpack all of the bits and pieces that I've been lugging around, literally, and fit them to the appropriate container. Containers that represent experiences, people, places, families. Containers that represent different chapters in my life. Examining what I've held onto, my version of a record, will surely reveal some of what I'm supposed to be writing.
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