Art.

A dear friend of mine recently moved house, and opined that of all the things she'd bought, art was the one thing she was the happiest having spent money on.

I agreed, looking around this little cabin that's ragamuffin in all the important ways. My "cabinets" are made of cardboard boxes. My sofa is an insult to the word, an amalgamation of an outdoor bench, a broken wicker frame, and an old futon, folded over. The "table" is a slab of wood I found under the house.

But what it does have, and what makes all that craziness feel bearable - is art.

Real art. Some of the couple-dozen pieces I lugged back across the Pacific Ocean, filling one of the two suitcases I brought to New Zealand when I finally decided to stay.

They're pieces I love, paintings and photos and poems that have been on the journey with me over years and years. They challenge me. Comfort me. Make me laugh.

Art does something really special for me. To me. Unlike everything else in my life, it doesn't go bad, and it doesn't change.

But I do. I shift through moods and periods, try on personalities as life shifts and I try to find my way in the new landscape. But these pieces of art remain. Fixed. Constant.

Landmarks that tell me, in the shifting desert sands, "you're this far from where you used to be."

I'm especially fascinated by the pieces I wouldn't buy any more. And as a creator - the pieces I wouldn't write anymore.

They were true, resonant, accurate. And they haven't moved an inch.

I think about how few things in our lives are like this. Unwavering. Honest. Willing to show us the things even our closest friends can't bear to.

And I'm grateful.

Here's to the art in our lives. Tell me - what's the piece you hold most close?

Have a timeless week,

-Steven

p.s. The best thing I saw this week was just simple and heartwarming and joyful. It's a story about a horse - and her dog.