Sometimes, just when you think you’re getting to know yourself, a sudden realization whacks you in the head and turns your assumptions about who you are on their head. So it was today, as I was picking away at the task of packing up the house to move. My realization flies in the face of my general dismissal of angelology as a triumph of hope over the practical, provable effectiveness of personal action.
The shocking truth: I have angels all over my house. The kind of collection that would make a bonafide angelologist proud. And I didn’t even realize it ’till now.
This one, sitting on my grandmother’s jewelry box, is innocent enough. It was my mother’s, another pragmatist who had an astonishing collection, much of which as come my way. So naturally I feel I can lay some of the blame for my collection on her.
Then there are the ones that fly around on my bedroom wall. And yes, three were my Mom’s but one of them I bought myself, in Tuscany.
More inescapable proof of angel fetishism: right here at my computer one sits benevolently blowing me kisses all day long. This one is from my Mom though, so I’m not too worried.
Then one of my favourites, which I bought from a dismantled church in London England, ostensibly as a gift for my mother (oh how we fool ourselves!) and which of course eventually made its way back to me.
And finally, as though all these smaller versions can’t make up for their size by their numbers, I present the final evidence: a six-foot tall recycled steel garden statue – currently presiding indoors – that I fell in love with at first sight and have lugged all over the world with me for three decades.
I’m still coming to grips with what this means. I don’t think I’m going to rush out and buy angel cards or anything, but clearly I’m harbouring a not-so-hidden desire for divine intervention. Should I give in to it, or continue to pretend they’re just art?