Without Sanctuary by James Allen I am a picker. It is my living and my avocation. I search out items that some people don't want or need and then sell them to others who do.
Children are natural pickers.
I played at it when I collected bees in jars that were dusting blossoms in the orange groves surrounding my family's home, or when I was wandering along swampy lakesides and hidden banana groves and found caches of stolen liquor or mossy old canoes. I never found that place, but the police found me and shipped me back home. Picking, I guess, is a kind of extenuation of that search. Once, unthinkably near to our house, in a deep, waxy green grove, I followed a path to the mildewed shack of an unshaven, alcoholic hermit. He made fantastic drip paintings on a portable turntable that splattered pure liquid color outwards like sun rays.