Stooped down amidst a pile of rubble, the man pored over each discarded piece, seemingly unaware of my presence. His ‘collection’ was intriguing; charred wood, broken glass, shards of metal, rocks of all shapes and sizes, carefully chosen and set aside. Perhaps more than the oddity of his collection was the intense scrutiny he gave each piece, and the delicate care as he set them in place.
Legend said he was mad; he had been at this for years. Each day he went out, methodical and precise in his sorting, choosing the worst of the worst. Mostly, he worked in silence and, these days, alone. Many had gone before to watch him, jeering at his insanity, the worthlessness of his craft. “It’s absurd” they’d say, “why would anyone care so much about trash?”
Curiosity got the better of me, I wandered closer, trying to see what the fuss was all about. He worked away in silence, picking up pieces, setting them down again. Every now and again, he would re-align them, as if there was some grand purpose in this mess. Perplexed, I leaned in, wondering what it was he saw.
“Do you see it?”
I startled; had he read my mind? I glanced up and met his gaze; his piercing eyes stared intently into my soul. “Do you see it?” I heard him ask again, with more intensity than before.I look again, straining to discern what it is I am meant to see, but all that is there is a pile of rubble. I look back at his face, it is tinged with sadness as I slowly shake my head. He must be crazy, like they say; yet I am compelled to look again. Still, I see only mess. Shaking my head, I meet his gaze once again. There is a fire in his eyes, an intensity and tenderness that I cannot understand. Am I blind? But what could he possibly see in this mess? “Do you want to see?” I am shaken from my thoughts once again. The invitation is warm, but there is an urgency as he asks again. I find myself at a loss for words. Do I really think this is worth my time, to entertain his delusions? Curiosity gets the better of me; erhaps he is a nomad, perhaps he is a sage. I stoop down, ready to see whatever it is he sees among the debris. His face lights up at my response; though his voice was quiet, his enthusiasm roared as he told his tale. He explained his quest, how every day he went out to the abandoned places, sifting through their devastating ruins, looking for the perfect piece. He selects pieces of stone and glass from the pile, telling their story with great delight; there are tales of old cathedrals and schools, of crumbling stadiums and desolate city squares. Intrigued, I cannot help but ask “Why these places? Why do you visit the ruins?”
As if he did not hear, he continued to tell tale after tale. “Sir, I do not understand -” I try again to interrupt.“But these” he says, as he reaches for the last pile, “these are the most precious of all”. I stare, confused, as he holds up shards of metal, clumps of bloodied dirt, scraps of paper and discarded food. Where are these from? The gutters.
He has not uttered a word and yet I heard it loud and clear. The gutters. My face floods with the shame of recognition and I quickly look away. Why would he go there? Why these places? The ruins, these I can almost understand – they once held greatness and ought to be preserved. But gutters? Why would he want what I so readily discard?
I could not bear to meet his gaze.
His tender voice cut through the silence “My child, do you yet see?”
Exasperated and ashamed I cried “There is nothing to see! It is just a pile of garbage!” I turn and begin to storm away.
“Bethany” – wait, he knows my name? How can this be? I have not told him who I am.
“Bethany, my child, do you not see?”
The question pierced my heart, and I knew… each of these pieces were a part of me. Some were from places I had been, pieces others were reminders of dreams I had long forgotten. Those pieces from his most precious collection… my eyes welled with tears as I remembered their pain and shame.
Why?
Why these?
Why now?”
He stood, taking me by the hand, and led me away from the pile. We walked in silence, waves of emotion crashing over me as each memory came, followed by the next. I could not understand why he did not say anything, why it seemed we were walking away from what had been his pride and joy. After a while, he stopped. “Now, are you ready to see?”
Raw from the journey, my pride long gone, I could barely whisper “yes”.
With great compassion, he placed his hands on my shoulders, and turned me around to look back upon the road we had travelled. When the sight before me came into focus, I realised we had climbed a large hill. As my gaze lowered, I saw the most beautiful picture before me, it was as if it was etched into the countryside. Colours glistened in the sunlight, the richest of purples, deep hues of green and blue; vibrant reds and yellows speckled the landscape. Could it be? Surely this was not where we had been standing before. I turned to him in effort to understand. His eyes smiled as he said, “this is your trash”.
Understanding flooded my soul. He was not a man of delusions, he was an artist. This canvas was my life. Somehow, he had taken the ordinary and mundane, rescuing even the most shameful pieces, turning them into this masterpiece. Light glittered across the landscape, and I marvelled at the precision of his design, though incomplete, it was already something to behold.
“Come” he said, “there is more”. Again, I found myself walking further away from this beautiful scene. I could not comprehend what else there could be; the picture was not complete, but I had seen the canvas. We walked in silence for a while, and then he stopped. This time, we turned together, looking back at where we had come. The view was breathtaking, stretching to the horizon. I realised that which I had seen before was not a canvas, it was only a part of this larger, grand tapestry.. I smiled, recalling the legend of the crazed man who collected trash. I knew the real story, he was an artisan creating beauty out of the rubble. This restoration of humanity, his life’s work.
Writings & Whims 