“You can put a broken thing back together- it’s just going to be different.” That was a sentiment that resonated with me when I recently listened to an episode of ‘This American Life.’ The episode (#827) was premised on the tale of Humpty Dumpty- the fella who had a great fall and couldn’t put himself back together again. In truth, there were so many bits of the episode that I adored. So many turns of phrase that I wanted to peel off the audio waves and press them close to the most tender inner flaps of my heart.
But I want to start, or second start, by sharing the introduction to the episode, because it’s so fucking epic. Anyway, best not to build it up (says the woman laughing at her ironic statement), so here goes:
There’s something about that image of someone broken so badly that nothing can fix it, that things can go so wrong, the finality of that—before you understand all the bad things that can happen in the world, how things come apart and people you love can die and you will die, before you get to any of the entropic, messy chaos of our world with its blackened toilets and its long-ago trashed model trains, you get this glimpse, this fat, cartoon, overdressed egg man smashed to tiny bits of shell and goo…
Today on our program, people who hit a moment when things shatter apart—how they make sense of it and not go to pieces themselves.
I mean- is that NOT AN INTRO? I know, I know, I built it up. And still, it’s just everything. Or at least for me it is, because it’s so relatable. So, itch-under-the-skin human.
I’m going to move onto another storyline for one moment, but as always, things will all come together in the end, which feels even more appropriate given our topic.
I made a new friend recently. I know. ME. Little anti-social me made a friend. That’s all I’m going to say, because much like the podcast, there are some things that are too pure to unpeel. Some things just exist- like sunshine.
We were having a chat and he brought up two concepts, one of which I want to explore a little, and the other I’ll leave for another day.
He asked me if I knew about kintsugi. It didn’t ring a bell, but as the nerd in me is apt to do, I told him I’d do research. And I did. Once I started digging, I realized I had heard about this at some point, perhaps in college. If you are not familiar, kintsugi is the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with metallic powder or lacquer- most often gold. Beyond the beauty of the pottery made with this process, is the loveliness of the metaphor: the broken thing made beautiful because of its brokenness, its flaws, and imperfections.
The mended bowl is not the same as it was before repair- but it’s not broken anymore, right? And perhaps there are some who see the broken bowl and think it unworthy of repair- belonging at the bottom of a trash bin.
Is it perspective? Gumption? Hope?
What gives some the desire and ability to fit the pieces back together and why do others stay a pile of sharp-edged ceramic bits?
I think there are some who look at the new bowl, with its elegant metallic swirls, and see all the ways in which it’s different. They see diminished size and the uneven rim and lament the loss of what was, seeing all the negative spaces, the darkness.
This isn’t difficult to do. At all. We don’t like change. Growth is uncomfortable. We claim to embrace the different versions of ourselves, and then, we tell stories about who we were before. Before the trauma. Before the heartache. Before the sadness. Before the abandonment. Before the harm. Before the fuck up. Before the end. Before the loss.
We puff out our chests and smile broadly, all the while thinking what might have been. If only that hadn’t happened. If only they had stayed. If only we weren’t hurt. What then? Might we be lighter? Happier? More optimistic? More trusting? Less guarded?
Maybe.
But do those things have to taint us? Are our battle scars something that forever brands us a broken human, or do they form that shiny gold webbing that is the trademark of a new skin? A thicker skin. A more resilient coating.
I don’t think any of us can avoid some version of harm, no matter our efforts to do so. I think that pain is inevitable, in some form. Suffering is the human condition. Some of us are more harmed than others. Some of us are more broken than others. Some of us carry our pain differently. No matter the size or impact, we all have to either forge a path forward or stay mired in our grief.
The latter is easier in some ways. It’s a sadder existence, but I think sometimes it feels safer. I think sometimes it feels as if further harm can be avoided by curling into old pain. Sometimes we keep the bandage on just a little longer than we need to, just in case. Sure, the skin around the adhesive is tender and red, but the real wound, the one that pierced our flesh, is tucked away, and that’s all that matters.
Is it?
It’s not. Life eventually finds you. The ick always finds you. You will have to face it at some point or another. You will have to decide what to do next.
I have decided to lean into the repaired version of myself, the tattered but patched and infinitely stronger version of myself. I am not the same as I was. My heart is wary, and my brain is alert, and my guardrails are taller. I have calloused palms and cracked heels and wiry gray hairs scattered near my part and gentle lines by the corners of my eyes. I have stories. So many stories. Stories that are funny and also, tragic, and sometimes embarrassing, and always a lesson.
I am not unburdened from the ways in which I have suffered, the ways in which the world has harmed me, and I have aided and abetted in that harm, but I am freer now than I was, than I have been.
You will be different if and when you put yourself back together again. It’s just the way all of this tends to work. But that different version of you will be so beautiful. And it’s not about how others see you or what they see. It will be beautiful to you, for you, because in spite of your fear, your hesitation, your desire to hang onto sadness and rage, you will see that this new version is a survivor, and there ain’t nothing more beautiful than that.
X
L.
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