Growing up, I idolized my older brother Paul. Between his army years, he was the fearless chef, whipping up magic at a fancy seafood restaurant while I fumbled plates as an underage waitress serving alcohol (those were the days when labor laws weren’t always scrutinized!).
My vivid memories not only include him teaching me the restaurant trade, but the laughter of summer afternoons spent on the water fishing with the daredevil captain in his motorboat, and his joyous yell – “Look at me, I look like a lobster!” – as he emerged back on the boat after a spontaneous dip in Long Island Sound, his skin flushed from the sun.
Years flew by. One year, we cleared out some of our excess in our parents’ house for a weekend garage sale before I left for college. Our family had decided that all proceeds would go towards my college fund. It was while hammering a garage sale sign onto a utility pole that my irritation with Brother Paul, chain-smoking beside me, reached a boiling point.
“You can’t do anything without lighting a cigarette, can you?” I lashed out, a cigarette smoker myself at the time, but come on, you could take a breath in between!
Brother Paul, ever the chain smoker, lit another cigarette in reply to my remark. (Little did I know this would be one of his last packs and he would quit soon enough, cold turkey.) The point is that this dynamic happened to be part of a familiar pattern. When something about him rubbed me the wrong way, I’d lash out. The cycle would then repeat, with the roles occasionally reversed. Repeat.
In my youthful naivety and fierce independence, I took family for granted, assuming it was an unchanging fixture in the ever-shifting world. We think we have endless time in the world to say sorry, to mend fences. But life offers no such guarantees. That mindset, needless to say, wasn’t a recipe for a strong relationship with Brother Paul. My early twenties were a whirlwind, and while I eventually made significant amends to him and his wife, Diane, the harsh words exchanged left lingering scars. Let’s face it, neither of us were perfect back then.
Certainly through the years, we took each other for granted, assuming “lobster skin” resilience. We forgot about the fragility woven beneath the shell. This fragility, often ignored by our “get-up-and-go” culture.
This truth hit home recently when Brother Paul faced some health challenges. While the details are private, it was a wake-up call that I actually experienced in slumber. Recently, I had a dream where I tried to comfort him with empty promises of “everything will be alright.” Yet, a chilling voice whispered the truth: “No, it won’t.”
I brushed off the dream, hoping it wasn’t a portent of something terrible. However, it did serve as a stark reminder of life’s impermanence. The truth is, even for the most devout and faith-filled, the finality of death can be a difficult pill to swallow. We crave a pause button, a chance to hold onto forever. But the reality is, life is finite.
At the moment, everything has simmered down. However, Brother Paul’s recent health struggles unleashed a wave of guilt and regret for some of our past words and actions. We also found ourselves acutely missing my son Marshall. His absence magnified the emptiness in our already dwindling family circle. Yet, amidst the pain and turmoil, the experience also ignited a spark of hope. Hope that we would have more time to rebuild a stronger bond, filled with shared laughter that once turned us both lobster-red.
So, here’s my two cents’ worth after being zapped by this most recent wake-up call. Take a deep breath, reach out to those you love, and truly listen where judgment has no place. There are stories waiting to be told, adventures waiting to be had, and sun-kissed swims yet to be taken.
Don’t wait. Embrace the present moment. Yell, “Now is all we have!” Dive into the vast ocean of life now, because even its seemingly endless depths have their limits.
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He whisked away the debris, and last week returned with a brand-new pane of glass. After he fitted it into the cabinet’s frame and stepped back, sunlight streamed through the living room window, painting a vibrant rectangle across the wood floor and glimmering on the new, freshly cleaned mirror in the china cabinet.
Francisco and I both exchanged a smile before he packed up his things and left for the day. I wanted so much to believe that like the new pane, our lives too had the capacity for renewal. Of course, unlike the mirror, I couldn’t replace my personal cracks and chips or the inevitable wear and tear, but did the flaws erase the inherent beauty? Or did they add a layer of character, a testament to the full-life lived? Was I, I wondered, a human version of Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold.
In that moment, I felt a shift. Perhaps it was the undeniable symbolism – the brokenness replaced by something whole and new – something solid like gold. Perhaps it was the inherent optimism of spring, a season that whispers promises of renewal. After the quiet slumber of winter, those first few hyacinths were already poking out from the ground in my backyard while the robins ribboned around our premises, dancing in their warm orange coats.
A surge of wishful thinking swept over me. Briefly, I donned the familiar rose-colored glasses, picturing the year ahead. Perhaps the persistent bad luck plaguing our house would finally dissipate, carried away by a spring breeze. Perhaps sunshine would outnumber the storms. But even with that hopeful vision, fragments of doubt remained. Still, the point was to hold onto faith, a force both internal and external, that could guide me through life’s uncontrollable twists and turns.
So, as I stood there, facing down another battle with depression and PTSD, I chose hope. Hope that transcends the cycle of good luck and bad, setbacks and triumphs. I chose moxie too. After all, isn’t that the spirit of spring? A belief that even after the harshest winter, new life, new beginnings, and a whole lot of sparkle await me.
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As I picture the broken mirror that I wrote about last week, in my mind, I’m still struck by how its shattered fragments reflect the fractured pieces of my own life. But perhaps, instead of striving to mend them perfectly like the Japanese art of Kintsugi, there’s another path. Maybe it’s time to let go of these pieces, to remove them from the space they occupy in my mind. In their place, I can choose something new, something that uplifts rather than burdens my spirit.
This “something new” needn’t reflect a physical object. It could be the act of comforting the scared child within me, the one who’s carried burdens for too long. Whispering reassurances to my five-year-old self, “This too shall pass. You have the strength to overcome. Have a little faith and trust in yourself. Map out the future. Make a plan.“
Perhaps it’s time to reconnect with my grounding force, those often-overlooked feet that carry me through life. With newfound stability, I can rise tall and claim my rightful solid space in the universe.
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We’ve all heard that broken mirrors bring bad luck. Seven years to be exact. Well, six years ago, a stray mattress shattered the mirrored back of our small china cabinet. I shrugged it off at the time, preoccupied with other matters.
A few months ago, my dear friend Michelle recommended a wonderful handyman. Recently, while he was working on some odd jobs, our conversation turned to the china cabinet’s broken mirrored back.
“My wife won’t allow any broken mirrors in our house,” he said, his voice heavy with an unspoken worry. His words clung to the air, making the shattered reflection before me appear ominous. The cracks seemed to mirror the fractures in my own life, the hardships I’d endured, and the raw pain of our family’s tragedy.
Even though I was raised in a superstitious family, I didn’t really believe a piece of glass held any power over my circumstances. Fortunately, I do have a little more faith than that — but just in case — I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Maybe the broken mirror brought the bad luck into the house! I want it out as soon as possible!”
A few weeks later as the mirror came out, there was such a lightness in its place. I felt this sense of renewal – not in a superstitious “now things will be perfect” sort of way, Instead, it felt like a chapter had closed and getting rid of the broken mirror felt incredibly liberating.
During a conversation with Michelle, she mentioned something a friend, who had recently retired from the corporate world, had shared: “Hope is not a strategy.”
The wisdom resonated with me. I realized that removing the broken mirror was the true strategy. In doing so, I found hope. Perhaps the real power lies not in the shattered glass itself, but in the courage to choose change and embrace hope.
We all hold on to things, physically and otherwise, that no longer serve us. Whether it’s an old teacup with a stain, an item of clothing with a tear, or even a situation or person we can’t seem to move on from… sometimes letting go is the most cleansing and rejuvenating action we can take.
What are you holding onto that it may be time to release?
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Life, isn’t it a curious thing? One moment, basking in the warm hum of sunlight, the next, trudging through knee-deep burdens and sorrows. Shoulders that once held dreams become stooped under the weight of worries, the ache in our hearts echoing the echo of unanswered prayers. We carry loved ones lost, dreams delayed, anxieties that whisper tensions into our ears.
That’s how I feel often, like a melody stuck on repeat, minor key and somber. Even the sunlight seems to carry a nameless weight that is all too familiar. Then, in the midst of that personal symphony of despair, on my way to George’s funeral mass, a song washed over me, unexpected and pure. “Only Passing Through,” it whispered, sung by voices I didn’t recognize, The Taylors, they called themselves.
Since I first heard it that morning on the radio, I’ve been listening to it, a gift of faith in the midst of mourning. I haven’t looked the group up, purposefully. This song, it carries no dogma, no sermons veiled in melody. Metaphorically, you can say that it simply sings of journeys and departures, of resting places beyond horizons. You can say that it speaks of life as a passing train, each stop a pause, a goodbye laced with the promise of a hello.
When the darkness presses in, the chorus of “Only passing through” rises, a gentle reminder that this isn’t all there is.
The song helps me to get through the noise, take a moment, close my eyes. Listen. I find peace in knowing that I am just at another bend in the track, leading me closer to that final, glorious station, bathed in the light of eternity.
P.S. Maybe one day I’ll look up The Taylors. But for now, I’ll pass. Clear mind, open heart, and a whispered ‘all is well’ at the moment.
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It’s not often a funeral mass leaves you with a heart full of warmth and a smile tugging at your lips. But then again, George wasn’t your average man. He lived a life etched in humble heroism, a canvas painted with the vibrant hues of love and duty.
A few weeks ago, we gathered to bid farewell to this gentle giant, a 75-year-old veteran who wore his service to his country and his fellow veterans not as a badge of honor, but as a thread woven into the fabric of his being. He fought as a marine in Vietnam, bearing the physical scars with a stoic grace that mirrored the silent depth of his compassion.
George wasn’t a man of many words. He wasn’t one for gossip or grand pronouncements. His eloquence resided in the steady gait of his helping hand, with a quiet resolve etched on his features, to assist in the best way he could when faced with another’s despair. The priest, delivering a homily that seemed spun from the very essence of George himself, reminded us that God asks only one question upon our arrival at the celestial gate: “How have we loved?”
And oh, how George loved! In his younger years, he loved his country, serving it with unyielding courage and an unwavering sense of duty. He loved his fellow veterans, dedicating his later years to easing their burdens and mending their shattered souls. In his later years he also embraced those lost to addiction, offering them a guiding hand and a glimmer of hope in the abyss, participating in a supply chain of love, passing on what he had been given.
His love wasn’t flamboyant, it wasn’t performative. It was a quiet river, carving its path through the hearts of those around him, nourishing them with its unwavering flow.
So after George’s funeral mass, I ran into many old friends. One of them was my friend Lisa and her husband, both of whom I haven’t seen for nearly a decade. After many shared memories, Lisa and I inked a future calender date for a get-together. The following is an excerpt from her text to me that I received later that evening:
“Hi Stacy!!! I can’t stop thinking about the amazing day I’ve had saying a proper goodbye to George at that beautiful service and reuniting with YOU and seeing so many of my core group. I didn’t realize how much I miss you all! I am so grateful for today … Even in death George carries the message.”
Reflecting on the tapestry of his life, it dawned on me: not on battlefields nor in fogs of self-importance are victories won, but in the heart’s quiethaven, where love’s embrace melts fear’s searing touch and doubt’s whispering shadows, a sanctuary of faith blossoms, a gentle rose amid thejungle’s harshclasp.
Rest well, dear George. Your love echoes in a friend’s laugh, a soldier’s courage, and ripples of kindness, whispering your name in heaven on earth.
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In 1993, while my infant son, my first born, lay in the NICU, his pediatric cardiologist plopped a hefty textbook about pediatric cardiology onto the surface of the nurse’s station. In fact, one of the chapters was written by my son’s doctor himself. This dense tome, a relic of a pre-internet era, was to become my constant companion, a lifeline in a sea of uncertainty.
Seventy-two hours after giving birth on January 18 of that year to a seemingly healthy baby boy, my world, which had already been turned upside down by a seven-day stretch in the Labor and Delivery room and an unexpected premature delivery, spun out of control. Doctors diagnosed my son, Marshall, with not one but two congenital heart defects – a ventricular septal defect (VSD) and an atrial septal defect (ASD).
A VSD is a hole in the wall that separates the heart’s lower chambers (ventricles), while an ASD is a hole in the wall that divides the upper chambers (atria) of the heart. Fortunately, the ASD would heal on its own within the first year of Marshall’s life. However, the VSD, shockingly, turned out to consist of multiple holes, not just one, and only open heart surgery could repair the condition.
“A Swiss cheese heart,” his doctor said in his description to me, painting a vivid picture of my son’s condition. I can still recall the doctor’s words, “Ventricular septal defects are the most common congenital heart defects.”
At the time, I interpreted this statement as a reassurance that we were dealing with a relatively common condition. Okay, we’re with the majority. It’s good. My affirmation helped me put one foot in front of another on those endless shining granite-colored titled hallways that seemed to loop around like never-ending hamster wheels.
However, while researching this blog post, I came across a startling statistic: “About 1% of babies born in the United States have a congenital heart defect, such as a hole in the heart.”
This statistic struck me with a jolt. In so many ways, as I’ve previously written, there was nothing typical about Marshall’s birth, life, or death. He truly was a one-percenter.”
Good thing back then I didn’t also know that almost 7 out of 10 infants born with a hole in the heart survive into adulthood, because I would have also obsessed about the three infants who don’t survive into adulthood.
As a new mother, I was understandably overwhelmed by the news of my son’s congenital heart defect. Textbook statistics and medical jargon did little to soothe my worries, and I couldn’t help but focus on the possibility of complications.
Despite my fears, within the first 10 months of his life, baby Marshall underwent two successful surgeries and emerged stronger and healthier than ever. However, our journey was far from easy. During his first year, he struggled with colic, an uncontrollable crying (screaming) condition that left us both exhausted and frustrated.
Hearing the constant wailing was heartbreaking. It was as if our son was in constant pain, and no amount of comforting or soothing helped. Both his pediatrician and pediatric cardiologist assured us that colic was unrelated to his heart condition, but it was hard to believe that a seemingly healthy baby could be in such distress.
As a stay-at-home mom, working as a freelance writer, I felt the weight of responsibility more heavily than ever. The endless cycle of crying, feeding, and soothing left me drained and desperate for a solution. One night, actually early hours of the morning, in a moment of sheer exhaustion and despair, I had a horrifying thought: what if I just tossed my son out the window?
The thought was fleeting, but it shook me to my core. I realized that the stress of caring for a colicky baby had pushed me to the brink.
Fortunately, I had been actively involved in various therapeutic undertakings as well as a 12-step program over the past nine years. These interventions, which I still consider to be the most profound healers in my life, provided me with the strength to navigate this challenging period. I had a reservoir of coping mechanisms and strategies for dealing with whatever life threw at me. I remained grateful for the power of faith and fellowship, and most importantly, my son taught me an invaluable lesson: the essence of unconditional love.
You see, exhausted and at my wit’s end after recounting the sleepless nights, I would often conclude my sharing in support groups with the poignant declaration, “I’m learning how to love.” It was a testament to the profound impact my son had on my life.
Gradually, the crying subsided, and Marshall’s congenital heart defects became a successful chapter in our lives. He grew into a healthy toddler and our routine returned to a semblance of normalcy, though our son’s unique challenges remained. He was a fighter, determined to live life on his own terms.
For instance, administering his medication was a daily battle. The only way I could manage it was with the help of my 80-something-year-old dad, who would hold him down while I forced drops of medicine down my son’s throat. Similarly, buckling him into a car seat was another 20-minute ordeal. Marshall had an aversion to being confined, and he would resist it with every ounce of his mule-like strength. I vividly recall a struggle in the back seat of our car at a grocery store parking lot. It took me over 20 minutes, the golden number, to finally secure him in his seat. When I left the back seat, ready to hop into the passenger seat, an older woman, with her arms crossed and a face contorted with rage, confronted me. She shook her head, likely assuming I had just beaten my son in the back seat, but she didn’t investigate any further and, instead, stormed off without a word.
Dental appointments were an entirely different ordeal. Marshall’s fear of the dentist was so intense that he became hysterical in the waiting room. On one occasion, his behavior was so disruptive that a staff member reprimanded me; I mean, the responsibility always falls on mom, right? From then on, we scheduled our appointments at off-peak hours when we could avoid the presence of other children. While it was embarrassing to have to make special arrangements, it was the only way to ensure that Marshall received the dental care he needed.
Wouldn’t you know it? Marshall’s dental issues were far more severe than those of an average child. He seemed to be a one-percenter when it came to tooth problems, so we were frequent (solo) visitors to the dentist’s office.
Around the age of five or six, Marshall seemed to have outgrown his fear of the dentist. We arrived for our appointment, and everything appeared to be going smoothly in the waiting room packed with other children. However, as the hygienist approached wearing her workday garb, Marshall bolted up and ran into the bathroom, locking the door behind him. It took nearly an hour of coaxing and reassurance to convince him to come out. Despite the setback and leaving a few kids and their parents frazzled, we managed to complete the appointment, just as we always had.
“I’m learning how to love.” My update to my fellows remained the same — week after week; month after month; year after year.
When Marshall first entered kindergarten, some of his behavior was a stark contrast to what had turned into, at least for a good deal of the time, a calm demeanor at home. Specifically as soon as he arrived home and got off the school bus, he ran around the house, screaming uncontrollably. Little did I know that a lot of his behavior stemmed from the actions of his teacher — a story I won’t delve into at this point.
Consulting with the school’s psychologist revealed that Marshall exhibited exemplary behavior in class — a trait that remained consistent throughout his school years. What the psychologist further explained was that he channeled his pent-up emotions from the classroom and school grounds the minute he stepped off the school bus and onto home turf, a safe zone where he was unconditionally loved and able to express his true emotions and feelings. In this case, it was a lot of fear and frustration from performing properly on the world’s stage. Great! This knowledge helped me enormously. I bit the bullet.
Marshall’s determination to live authentically, even within the haven of love and trust, often sparked conflict with those closest to him, the casualties of his relentless quest to shed the shackles of his false self, which I didn’t learn about until his last year on earth. Once someone told me I should have received the Purple Heart medal (which my eldest brother Mike actually did, along with a few other medals, while he was in the service during Vietnam) for raising my son. I agreed wholeheartedly.
Throughout the challenges and joys of parenthood, I never lost sight of my gratitude. First, for the privilege of becoming a parent in my 30s, a rarity among my generation in those days, and second, for the honor of nurturing the most precious gift on earth: human life. It’s a concept that still amazes me to this day.
Admittedly, I didn’t always handle motherhood perfectly. I made mistakes and fell short many times. But through it all, I discovered that the extraordinary act of prioritizing another’s needs above your own — the essence of motherhood — was my ultimate purpose and it still is.
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A few months ago, as I was recounting the experiences of raising my son to my dear friend Michelle, my co-author of her memoir. I told her how, especially during the many trials, I would often reiterate, “I’m learning how to love.” And then, as we conversed and I reflected on the profound impact my son had had on my life, I added, “Out of all the lessons he’s taught me, he’s taught me how to love the most.”
To that statement, she amazingly replied, “He still is.”
She couldn’t have been more accurate. Marshall would have been 31 this coming Thursday, January 18. The pain of what was and what could have been, as my therapist Louis, who had lost a daughter of his own, had promised, has softened through these years, but it remains a constant presence. My life has taken on a different dimension, with everything now filtered through the lens of his absence. Marshall is forever young at 26, and I am forever a heart broken senior citizen who understands the fragility of life at the first heart beat.
It brings to mind a podcast, All There Is with Anderson Cooper, (September 21, 2022) with Stephen Colbert: Grateful for Grief. The excerpt is below:
Anderson Cooper: Wow. Something I’ve been feeling a lot with my kids because they’re so perfect. There are these moments of such frailty that, my heart is breaking at just the beauty of this experience. And yet there’s this sense of sort of the awareness of the frailty of it.
Stephen Colbert: The first experience that I had holding my first child, my daughter. The first thing that occurred to me was, how beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end.
How beautiful and how wrong that this will ever end. I repeat that line all day in my head and it never fails to rekindle my sense of gratitude.
In this new, old world of mine, I’m totally indifferent, and that’s okay. I do not need a textbook to interpret my lot, for it is a journey reserved solely for me not bound by external factors, but my own inner compass. Yet without question, intrinsically I know the the path was carved for me to walk; the metaphorical bullet others dodged, but I took the hit. Each step, a small victory over the overwhelming feeling of defeat that threatens to consume me. The hallways endless; granite tiles, cold and unforgiving. Faith forward, my final spin on the hamster wheel of life.
Damn. I’m learning how to love — without victory, without reserve.
Love transforms you. It stretches your limits until you feel like you’re in a league of your own, a realm that only a select few will ever experience. It breaks you down, only to rebuild you stronger, more resilient, and more capable of love than you ever thought possible, a medal of honor with no comparison.
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Imagine this: a cherished ceramic vase, shattered into a hundred pieces. Grief hangs heavy in the air, mirroring jagged shards scattered across the floor. However, instead of discarding the wreckage, you choose Kintsugi – the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. Using careful hands and a patient heart, you join the pieces, each gilded seam tracing the story of the vase’s fall and rebirth.
I mentioned the art form in last week’s blog. Kintsugi, meaning “golden joinery,” is more than just a repair technique; it’s a philosophy. It celebrates the idea that brokenness is not an ending, but rather a new beginning, infused with unity and strength. In the same vein that I wrote about last week, what if we applied this philosophy to our own lives, especially when they feel tragically broken and faith seems like a distant dream? Especially when we believe our brokenness defines us.
How do we apply kintsugi in our own lives? The first step is to stop pretending the cracks don’t exist. Ignoring them only prolongs the suffering. Let the tears flow, let the anger roar until it dissipates. Then, with courage, reach into the depths of your pain, your vulnerabilities, your struggles. Only then, through this act of bravery of facing what hurts the most, can the healing begin.
The next phase of the process is to embrace the imperfections. I get tripped up in the fact that our society often glorifies the “perfect,” airbrushed version of life. But Kintsugi reminds us that beauty lies in the authentic, in the unique imperfections that make us who we are. Embrace your scars, your stumbles, your quirks. They are the gold that makes your story shine.
From that vantage point, it’s easier to lift your head high and seek out the light. Do you not see it? I remember over 39 years ago, I could not see beyond the darkness, and the world around me seemed equally eclipsed. As fate would have it, my journey of crafting my own kintsugi began when I panned in the rubbish. It wasn’t the fear of judgmental stares that fueled my courage, but rather a community of open hearts, unjudging ears and warm embraces. People who saw my worth, not my cracks. Slowly, like moss finding purchase on a weathered rock, self-compassion aided me to recognize the shimmering parts of my life’s inventory, like gold dust on the wind. Accepting my fractures became the catalyst for healing. I gained a new set of eyes to see myself not as a broken vase, discarded and forgotten, but a work of art in progress.
My kintsugi journey is far from over, and, I’m guessing, neither is yours. As the new year unfolds, let us walk this path together and continue to share stories, tips and resources. Let’s kintsugi together, one shimmering piece at a time.
The clickety-clack of red shoes against the pavement announced her arrival long before her presence did. Each step towards her therapist’s office echoed a question thrumming in her heart: “Do I still believe?”
January 2nd; the new year kicked off, but the same relentless storm of challenges remained: job lost, debt mounting, love departed, health fading, leaving her grappling for faith.
Then, her gaze snagged on the crimson glow of her shoes. A whimsical purchase, worn for the first time today. They felt like a spark, a whispered counterpoint to the storm. Even in the depths of despair, beauty clung on, defying the shadows.
The woman arrived at the office housing a number of therapists and took a seat in the quiet waiting room. She looked around and a mosaic of faces mirrored her own uncertainties. But instead of isolation, she felt a strange sense of solace. She wasn’t alone in this dance with doubt.
Her therapist called her name, and she went into the office. She sat down in a plush chair, and the therapist asked her how she was doing.
The therapist, with a gentle smile, listened as the woman poured out her story. The loss, the anger, the fear, oh, the fear, and the gnawing void where faith once resided.
“It’s okay,” the therapist finally said, her voice a soothing balm. “Finding faith isn’t always the answer. Maybe we don’t have to overthink it because maybe faith, like air, simply exists. We breathe it in without being fully aware that that is what sustains us.”
The surprised woman blinked with wet lashes. “But God?” she whispered.
The therapist shook her head. “I don’t know. But my faith in beauty remains. Even in the storm’s eye, even in the cracks of life, something shines. If I can’t see it then I must trust in the eyes of another who can. I must feel it in the warmth of a mug; hear it in the comfort of music; smell it in the emerald symphony outside. And that, for me, is enough.”
Silence stretched for a moment, then the doubting woman’s lips curved into a hesitant smile. “What if I’m still oblivious to faith?”
The therapist’s eyes twinkled. “Dare to hope in a new tomorrow. Let the sunrise ignite your hope. Make a point to do the right actions, and share that radiance with others. A smile to a stranger, a surrendered parking space in a crowded lot. Remember always: the free-spirited audacity of red shoes dancing on marred gray sidewalks – these too are paths to beauty. Look at Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold. The cracks, once wounds, become gilded threads, woven into the story of the piece. Like your shoes, every scar can be a flourish, a testament to resilience. Regardless of differing fortunes, we all walk paths riddled with cracks, yet they are still our steady ground.”
A wave of relief washed over the woman. She didn’t have all the answers but she had derived what she had needed: a seed of hope. She’d let up on the searching, but would continue to walk despite the brokenness, scarlet threads woven through her path, unseen but keenly felt.
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As the clock flickers towards midnight, a familiar ritual unfolds. Champagne bubbles, confetti dances, and resolutions whisper into the starlit sky. This time, however, as the year draws to a close, let’s rewrite the script. Forget the forced resolutions, toss the tired expectations. Instead, let’s ignite a revolution within, breaking free from self-doubt and crafting a haven of self-acceptance.
And this revolution has already begun for me. It lives in the wise gifts you’ve shared: your words and kindness like vibrant brushstrokes painting light onto the canvas of my being. From your help, I’m learning to embrace vulnerability, letting my empathy shine like constellations while dancing to the rhythm of my own unfamiliar steps, waltzing with joy, tangoing with grief, and pirouetting through loss across the canvas of life.
Because of the many gifts you’ve given me, I raise my glass to you, my blogging community friends. May your untamed fires illuminate the path ahead, and may your brushstrokes of faith paint your personal masterpiece, abstract or otherwise, in the coming year. Happy New Year to you all!
WTF? (Where's the faith?) 