Often, occasionally, sporadically,
even spontaneously,
I make mistakes.
They happen naturally:
a missed word or apostrophe,
my mind gets moving and
I fail to see the errs of my ways,
or errors throughout the day.
It is, or was, or has been
when I write or what I say.
Incidentally or accidentally,
it goes without saying,
but the fact remains
I make mistakes.
Every day.
We learn from our mishaps, or
should anyway, we try to
improve and continue
to count the ways. What we do
and how we behave
counts for a lot.
My eraser rubbed raw
by attempts and change,
I continue to make mistakes.
Forgive me please when
my thoughts go amiss, and
remember I am human amidst
this confusion or corruption
we all experience.
I make mistakes,
I may fail or fall,
yet remain myself, flaws and all.
The Japanese technique of kintsugi involves filling cracks and chips in broken porcelain or pottery with gold, leaving the obvious in a more useable state. In the process of reparation, the once-broken object is transformed and becomes, again, useful. The philosophy of the art itself is so applicable to the art of everyday living. We are all broken, in places, the scuffs and cracks in our being becoming obvious more times than others. Some cracks are deep — running straight through to our foundation — while others are more superficial: lines on our face or breaks in the skin that need to be tended to. Aren’t we all, on any dimension, in need of repair? It is how we fill our cracks that make us whole. The pursuit of a passion or personally fulfilling activity, time spent with loved ones, sole (or soul) meditation, the search or study of literature or prayer, are purposeful methods of filling the gaps. These moments are golden. We can become whole again by filling the spaces in our lives, however deep. In doing so, we become stronger. As Leonard Cohen famously wrote: “There is a crack in everything, that is how the light gets in.” Cracks have a purpose (kitsugi highlights this) but we need to be aware of the breaks in our patterns; in our time; in our lives. The cracks remind us what needs to be tended to. We incorporate our wounds into our presence. It is the whole of our object, flaws and all, that provide the individuality of our personal beauty.
Does it feel this way for everyone? This darkness, this temptation, to look away, to step away, from a silent fire. I have been burned. I am vulnerable. I am afraid of speaking out. I hold these heavy thoughts back from others (don’t they have their own concerns). What do I keep away from myself? Does it matter? Couldn’t I simply amuse myself with lighter thoughts, or gentle distractions – wouldn’t golf become a more useful game – where the object, intent, and goal is so simple? Who am I to think my purpose or intention is more important, or I am simply missing the point? I am hurting. Am I ignoring the hurt? My eyelids are heavy; is it from seeing too much, or is it from trying to keep them shut?
Dawn will come, it always does.
