Kintsugi

Published in Her Path Forward: 21 Stories of Transformation and Inspiration edited by Julie Burton and Chris Olsen

1.

The Kintsugi bowl at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts is not currently on display, lodging somewhere in the museum’s storerooms.  The pottery was made in China, thin and delicate with a fluted rim and glazed in a pale jade green color.  The inside of the bowl contains an overlapping floral design tenderly etched by the ceramicist, who lived in the twelfth or thirteen century.  The bowl is cracked and repaired with a gold fill.  The MIA curator believes the bowl was mended in Japan for a Japanese owner, as kintsugi was not a Chinese custom.

I remember seeing it displayed years ago when I took my young children on visits to the museum.  “Look at the crack!” I said, pointing into the glass case. “Don’t you wish you could trace the delicate gold seam with your fingers?” Their eyes lit up at the idea of touching its exquisite beauty, like its owner probably did seven  hundred years ago, after her bowl was returned to her, mended.

2.

My first husband was an artist.  He designed our wedding bands in three parts.  The top portion was made of rose gold, and the bottom portion was yellow gold.  In the middle of the ring was a narrow silver ring that was set at an angle, tilting its path through the center and joining the other two pieces together.  The symbolism was that we were two separate lives, melding together, but we anticipated both good experiences and difficulties. As one person’s strength waned, we hoped that the other would compensate with greater vigor.  When one person became angry, we hoped the other would grow in love.  And we would always make a whole.

A local goldsmith created our rings, which we wore for five years until our divorce.  My then-husband lost interest in me as he embraced his own gay identity.  No amount of love or strength or forgiveness could keep us whole.  The rings are no longer a matched set, but separate, journeying with us as we moved on to new lives and other loves.

3.

For years, I colored my hair to raven brown to hide the gray.  Then I stopped.  At about the same time I gave up treating my hair, I also gave up wearing make-up, committing fully to looking like the person I am.  Sometimes, I still don a little drugstore tiara, to crown the ordinary, everyday beauty of aging.

4.

My husband Joel began working full-time from home during the pandemic of 2020. Spending more time in the house, he became increasingly frustrated with the chipped and faded dishes in our kitchen.  After several evenings studying china patterns online, he narrowed the selection down to a few choices.

“What do you think of these?” he queried with a quiver of excitement in his voice.

“We really don’t need to spend this money right now.” I said.  “What we have is fine.  We are home alone.  I can’t imagine the next time we will be able to invite guests to our house for dinner.”

I failed to say: “I am also resistant to change during periods of stress.  Please don’t ask me to make this decision.”

He nonetheless convinced me that we needed to refresh our kitchen, and new china was the answer.  One day, a big box arrived on our doorstep, the contents cheering our home with bold blue stripes on the plates, coffee mugs, and bowls.

Joel tossed the chipped pieces of our original set in the trash.  I reserved a few damaged plates and bowls because ritual destruction is a valuable tool during a pandemic.  Breaking plates can be invigorating for a controlling person, like myself.  Our son and I broke the first plate in July after he finished an incomplete in one of his college classes following his sheltering-in-place-at-home spring semester online.  Another plate was destroyed with joyful abandon after a tense election concluded in the fall.  I broke another in celebration of receiving my COVID vaccines.  I hold one in reserve for the imminent demise of our beloved golden retriever.

Hurling old china in the driveway and watching it break into sections, big and small, is my privileged suburban method of demonstrating non-attachment and illuminating failure, loss, and transition.  After the throwing and breaking, I bend over and pick up the china pieces, searching the edge of the driveway for remnants that might puncture a bike tire.  Stooping over, acknowledging my own brokenness, salvaging the detritus I created, this is the way of heartbreak, of repentance, and of revolution.

5. 

My mother likes to say she is “only 96.”  She refuses to be photographed, does not recognize her own bone-deep beauty.  Browsing old yearbooks, she recalls her youth and senses she is now nothing more than a museum piece in storage.

For months, because of the pandemic, we did not see one another at all.  The isolation was confusing to her.  Her bright smile faded.  The witty conversations of the past turned into repeated questions over the phone:  “Why can’t you come to my apartment?  Why don’t you visit me anymore?”

As Covid protocols changed, I was able to visit with her in her apartment, wearing two masks and a face shield.  Although it was difficult to kiss her in my “astronaut gear” as she called it, I reached out my hand to touch her delicate frame.  My hand gently traced her curving spine, through her neatly ironed dress shirt.  I am grateful for her precious body, held together with the lacquer of persevering stubbornness and the golden dust of a century of memories.

“What will it be today, Mom?  Scrabble, paperwork, cleaning out the closets?” My mother’s current obsession is to review every file, every book, and every drawer to discard the non-essentials, aiming to achieve a final zen-like habitation.

“Do you think we have time to play?” She claps her hands like a strict schoolteacher, calling the class to order.  “We have so much work to do!”