I adore this box. Was it specially crafted by a family member? No. Close friend? No. As a matter of fact, I have no idea who made it. My mom got it somewhere from a craft convention or sidewalk vendor and asked me if I wanted it. I said no as a knee-jerk reaction. I didn’t want stuff cluttering up my house.
Over the course of my visit, I kept looking at it, and my no became a yes. From a logical perspective, I think I shouldn’t like it because it doesn’t fit societal standards of elegance. At first, I didn’t want to like it. What would that say about my taste? And yet I was drawn to the box as if it were made just for me. There’s no pattern to the pieces. But that doesn’t matter. I love every square centimeter of it.
I started thinking about it. Why would a box with a hundred randomly glued costume jewelry pieces have such a magnetic pull on me? I looked deeper. The box itself is finished and well-crafted. The pieces are glued tight. It’s well-crafted even if over-the-top. It’s been sitting on my dresser for months and I came to a realization. The box was created with love. Someone loved making this box. They picked out each piece and built a unique work of art. Notice the hearts and the trim. And that love was somehow transferred into this work of art.
I don’t always paint or write with love. Sometimes I’m going through the motions. Our work suffers when we forget the most important ingredient. All you need is love.