I took pictures of these a while ago to share, and an unexpected cleaning expedition the other day brought them again into my periphery. (I wrote this entry the other night on my Palm and just synched today, so that's why explains the tense/timing of the piece.)
These three crystal pieces captivated me this summer with their vibrant color. I bought the vase when mom was here in July. We were shopping at the Pier, and I spotted the small vase in the window. Inside the store, we oohed and aahed over the collection. Mom bought herself a bud vase and treated me to the small vase. I couldn't pass up the taller vase with the colored leaves.
A few weeks later, we were back at the Pier, and my feet were irrevocably drawn into the store again. After spotting the tulip-like dish, I was entranced. I dragged M. from another store to see, and she agreed it was perfect. She didn't seem totally convinced about my plan to use it for knitting odds and ends on the side table next to my rocker. But she did agree to its beauty.
I brought it home and sat it on the entertainment center with the other pieces, temporarily out of the way as we've had random company over the last few weeks. They've been there since. Every time I clean up or move something on top, I pause to marvel at their combined beauty. I pick up one piece or the other, am momentarily surprised by the weight of the crystal, and watch the light play around and through the colored patches. It makes me happy just knowing they are there. Like a child mesmerized by the shifting
colors, shapes, and patterns of a kaleidoscope, I find simple pleasure
in looking at them.
Cleaning up today, however, I was compelled to bring my dish down and, in good craftsman style, put it to use - give function to the beauty (thus making it even more beautiful for those of us who appreciate the beauty of something functional as well as beautiful). I had cleaned off my table, which is usually cluttered with patterns, my knit journal, rogue needles, markers, pens, and other knit paraphernalia. So the relatively uncluttered (or maybe 'straightened' is a better term) table presented me with the perfect opportunity to put the dish into action as part of my creative space and immediate visual landscape.
I brought the dish down and put it on the table.
Almost immediately, Matthew walked in and spotted it. "Mama what is that?" he asked, his voice full of excitement as he instinctively reached for it and its bright colors.
"No." I cried.
He looked at me.
I couldn't help laughing as I explained, "That is mama's dish. It's very pretty, but it's very fragile."
I put lots of emphasis on the last word.
This probably doesn't sound funny to you blog readers, just a practical explanation. But if you take into account that Matthew recently started preschool, and they do show and tell every afternoon, you'll quickly understand. From his first day at school, he's been very clear about the rules of show and tell. If something is "fragile," it means no one can touch it. They can look, but not touch.
Matthew has not taken one object yet that wasn't deemed "fragile." Even the books he's taken (from two favorite maze books to the instruction booklet for a favorite computer game [hey, he chooses his own show and tell items!]) have all been fragile.
We ask him what he's going to say about the object, and he invariably says, "This is my x, and I like it because it is fragile."
So, when he reached for the dish, I knew the perfect way to explain.
Tonight, the dish is sitting here next to me on the table as I work on my making waves sock (which has to be finished by end of month, so is stealing some time from Charlotte). It's not full yet. Not cluttered. Instead, right now, all it is holding is my small straight wooden cable needle.