Came out of a store and found this cup.
Broken.
Alone.
Sitting on the curb.
When I peered inside, the broken pieces were collected at the bottom in a pool of sky sorrow.
I was many moons younger when I learned about the Japanese tradition of wabi sabi – translated loosely as the beauty of imperfection.
I have so much to learn about the beauty of my own imperfection. I peer at this cup and find it comforting in its broken state. It speaks to my imperfect humanity. Draws me to look inside for my own broken pieces collected in a pool of sorrow.
I’m having a hard time sifting through those pieces. Lost in the puzzle of finding which rough edge goes with which rough edge. I’m determined not to hide the cracks. Rather, put the pieces together with gold. Visible. Attention drawn to. Sacred. Altered. Imperfect.
I don’t know how to do anything well at the moment. I have almost no memory. It takes me days and weeks to do what used to be done in an hour. I feel that I’m existing outside of time. I am unhinged from any sense of expectation. Fully dependent upon unmerited grace.
Break and heal.
Break and heal.
Break and heal.
The sound of which is so imperfectly human that I sit and weep at the sheer beauty of it.
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