In this world,
There are things we like and things we dislike.
These likes and dislikes are different for all human beings.
This is completely normal and to be expected,
But how often do we pass judgment on the likes or dislikes of others?
Why?
Why cast a pall over something just because we think we don't like it?
After all,
One never knows where and when one might find an unexpected treasure.
Take a slow breath now and begin to picture in your mind's eye being in an antique shop.
There is just enough light,
Natural light from above,
And a very slightly musty smell,
Not unpleasant,
But like a really old bookstore full of even older books.
You are surrounded by so many things that it takes your eyes a moment to focus.
There are indeed boxes and boxes of books,
Magazines,
A stack of maps,
Records,
Cassettes,
A few 8-tracks,
Knickknacks,
Paperweights,
Fridge magnets,
Various dolls and figurines,
A porcelain ballerina missing part of her tutu,
Trophies and medals,
A mishmash of plates,
Mugs,
Teacups and saucers,
Glasses,
Bottles,
Bowls,
And serving platters,
A wooden bread box.
As your gaze wanders over these items,
Your mind wanders too.
Who loved the stories in these books?
Who found their way where with these maps?
What triumph once felt the winner of this soccer trophy?
Who danced and sang to this 8-track of Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass?
What family dramas unfolded over these plates?
And what unfortunate accident damaged the ballerina's tutu?
There is so much to see.
Now here is a table crowded with picture frames.
Most are empty,
But some have actual pictures in them.
Who are these people?
How did they end up here?
Will someone give them a new home?
Or will they stay here now until they and their frames eventually fade away?
You move along slowly among the shelves and piles.
Now you're following a row of floor lamps to a collection of baskets,
Pots and planters.
And oh,
Here's a doorway.
You pass into another room,
This one a little darker,
A little mustier.
A yellowed mannequin is propped up against a small armoire beside racks of clothes.
Some furs are piled on a table.
Mismatched luggage is stacked on and around mismatched coffee tables.
The walls are covered with a hodgepodge of art.
And then you perceive yet another room through an arch on the opposite wall.
And you see her,
Our Lady of Guadalupe.
She's in an enormous painting hanging slightly askew as she watches over a candelabra,
A mirror and a drum,
Among other sundries.
You notice that her colours remain bright and lively,
While most of the colours in the rest of the shop are faded and drab.
You're delighted to find her,
But what on earth is she doing here?
Who cast her off as an antique?
How long has she been here in this back room,
Waiting,
Waiting for you?
You admire her for a few moments,
Offering a silent prayer,
And then leave.
As you re-enter the front room of the shop,
You catch the last muttered word of someone whose back is turned as he walks out of the store.
Junk,
He says.
Junk?
The word startles you.
It seems foreign,
Like it isn't from here,
From this place with our Lady and the frames with real pictures in them.
These things aren't junk.
They're treasures.
Someone's treasures anyway.
Or they were.
And you think to yourself,
May I be careful to not be closed to the possibility of value in everything I encounter.
May I be careful to not cast anything or anyone off as useless.
May I remain open to the idea that treasures can be found when I'm least expecting them.
May I remain open to the idea that all situations,
No matter how difficult,
Can offer some form of good.
May I remain open to the idea that all people,
No matter how different,
Can offer some form of good.
And may I always be mindful that life offers treasures in multiple forms every single day.
I have only to open my mind and my heart.
