Kintsugi: Bathed in GO(L)D
Our window shattered several weeks ago as Ben was weed whacking in the backyard. The sound it made as the cracks spread from the center, like a spider’s web being spun, was a prickling sound. Subtle enough that it took me a minute to notice it. But present enough that once I knew it was there it was all I could hear.
We haven’t replaced the window yet, and so we continue to live with a glass web blocking out view to the backyard. Sometimes I worry we will grow too accustomed to it and simply resign ourselves to its presence, not replacing what has been shattered. Like the shoes that have sat in the middle of the living room for days. The shoes that cause me to think, I should pick those up, every time I walk past them and yet it’s not until the thirtieth pass that I bend down to grab them. For now the fractured window remains.
I sat next to the window this morning as the sun shone through the glass. My arm stretched out and I looked down to see the reflection and shadows of the webbed pattern on my arm.
An arm that I probably think more unkind thoughts about than kind.
An arm I find myself wishing to be smaller, firmer, fitter.
An arm that bends to my will, cradles my young, hugs the ones I love, picks up the heavy loads.
An arm that I rarely thank.
And in that moment it looked as if the skin on my arm was the cracked and broken object. At first I was struck by the image, thinking it more beautiful than sad. But slowly I realized that perhaps it was closer to the truth than I was comfortable admitting.
I am a fractured human. I have been cracked by the world. I have been splintered by myself. I hide the brokenness under lotions, fashion, powders and words like “I’m good.” But every so often I catch a glimpse of the most tender parts of me. The parts that glisten like the spider’s web, with lines and patterns of past and present pain.
In church a few weeks ago the pastor talked about Kintsugi, the art of putting back together what is broken. But not to have it look like it was never cracked. Rather, to celebrate what was broken. The practice mends the cracks with gold to highlight the places that have been repaired—a celebration. It doesn’t hide what has been hurt but instead screams to the world, Yes I’ve been broken but I still stand—more beautiful now than ever!
In a world that wants us to show our best side at all times, to be photo ready, to have all the answers, to not mess up…sometimes I worry that we’ve stopped honoring our cracks in gold. As a faith based writer, I’ve become more and more aware of the fear of not saying things the right way. It’s a burden I carry with each word I type. But sometimes I focus so much on not saying the wrong thing, that I end up saying nothing at all. I am more concerned with hiding my cracks than I am willing to varnish them in gold.
I get things wrong all the time. I don’t have all the answers. I am covered in cracks.
Some days I can hear that prickling sound of glass fracturing. I hear it in my soul. Today, even after I walked away from the window, watching my skin miraculously repair itself from the shadowed lines, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was still much more of me that needed to be bathed in GO(L)D.
Isn’t that what we are offered in our faith? To bring our broken pieces to the creator. To say “I got it wrong” or “I’ve been hurt” and to be washed in his radiance, put back together and told we are cherished with our imperfections. I can see why God isn’t a popular idea in today’s world. Divine power who says we don’t need to be anything but ourselves is a threat to the marketing of all the things that are promising to make us better and erase our cracks. But just as Jesus’ resurrected body still held the wounds of his sacrifice, God doesn’t want our cracks to be erased. He wants them to be celebrated as each of our fissures is an opportunity to be pulled closer to the one who paints us in honor with his own blood.
