Broken
Things
I
put a little figurine in my booth at the Bama Flea last week. Two
children, a boy and a girl, sitting side-by-side fishing. It is a
shelf-sitter from occupied Japan, and even though it's old (1940's),
the colors are bright and beautiful. The little piece had been broken
and glued back together, so on the back is an ugly yellow glue line.
I've written before about how much I like broken things. What I like is, rather than throwing it away, someone loved
that figurine enough to carefully glue it back together to preserve
it. Makes me wonder what this little piece, it's only about three
inches across, meant to them.
I
have a collection of chipped and cracked objects in my house—a
porcelain statue of Venus whose head was broken and reattached, a
leaping green swordfish with a repaired bill, a diving duck bowl with
a crack, a giraffe whose chin is chipped, a wooden bowl I brought
from my parent's house in pieces and glued back together. I simply
can't throw them away. It's a strange malady. In some way, I want to
honor the preserver—the one who cared enough to keep and repair in
this throw-away world.
I
think my little collection means more to me because I know what
it is to be broken, and I know that being broken does not make one
worthless. In fact, in my estimation, the value increases. We aren't
really whole until we've been broken open by love or loss; we become
fully human in the very openness created by fissures to our ego and
self-absorption. If I were to picture myself as a figurine, there
would be lots of cracks and chips and many sloppy attempts at gluing.
Once broken open, we are vulnerable and real.
What
about you? Are you a believer in glue and careful repair? Do you see
the value in being broken open?
In the
Spirit,
Jane
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