BEAUTY IN THE BROKEN

Embracing the Imperfections and Birthing Something New

Unsplash image by jr-korpa, Family photo and digital imaging by Rhaine

In a world that so often prizes youth, perfection and excess, embracing the old and battered may seem strange. But the 15th-Century practice of kintsugi, meaning “to join with gold”, is a reminder to stay optimistic when things fall apart and to celebrate the flaws and missteps of life.

I want to tell you something I learned today. It was when I realized I don’t know where I come from. Now, I had a mother and a father and I know what city and state I was born in. But steeped in the deeper sense of the meaning behind the statement, I don’t have a grounded sense of the people I am from. I don’t have a tribe. I don’t know their ways underneath the skin of fundamentalist religion.

It was the oddest moment, standing in the isle of a thrift store when this descended into my awareness as my mind latched onto a coffee cup in front of me. And I could see it, in my mind, breaking this cheap Goodwill coffee cup then putting it back together with gold. Fanning the flames of my fantasy, I went on to sipping coffee from the patch cup. And I spun the particles of thoughts that drifted around and above me, beyond what I will usually allow. I wondered and thought about the word “secrecy”. Or is it shame? Perhaps they share the same seat. I go a bit further and visit the bits and pieces of stories with jagged non-endings that simply stopped. Like visiting my grandmother and at the end of the visit, she didn’t see us off as we drove away. She was just gone, removed from the scene. My mother’s explanation – “She says she had a headache.” Then my mother added, “It wasn’t the first time and when she suffers from one of these unknown maladies, she will spend a day or two in bed and then she’s up again, back to normal.” “Oh” I answered, not really understanding but knowing that was all I would get as far as an answer would go.

The family system, the cloth I am cut from, was one of non-questioning; nor did we probe. And now, it seems to be a closed book that went with them to their graves. Most everyone is gone except my sister. This void we share.

I often wonder and imagine that my great, great grandmother was a native American woman who was taken in by a white man and she became his wife. This was a rumor that floated somewhere behind the wall, the place where “we don’t talk about it” lived.

I want to tell you what I learned today. Years later, here I am. The fact that I am 69 years old and still feel lost at times and that I don’t really belong – that I don’t belong to a rich history of descendants, with stories and myths and legends to model my life from. Yet there is nothing material, no evidence, nor memories of such a thing. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough, or maybe I need to just say fuck it and start creating my own legend.

There is something magical, mysterious and, powerful in taking something broken and making it stronger and more beautiful than before. We can learn something from Kintsugi, Japan’s century-old art of repairing broken pottery and instead of covering up the flaws, the technique beautifies it.

I hope you enjoy this beautiful video about Kintsugi.