First, let me apologize for spreading click bait here on my moderately respectable blog. But the page(s) above are the inspiration for today’s words.
I just want to grab you and shake you and demand to know why you can’t see how special it is that I have chosen to give you my heart.
Kintsugi is a tradition in Japanese culture of fixing broken pottery by melding the pieces back together with molten gold. The broken edges become part of the piece’s overall aesthetic and beauty. The broken pieces are treasured, not cast aside because they are broken, the way they often are in Western cultures (read: America, where disposability is rampant).
I would like to think the broken pieces of my heart and of my soul have been put back together with gold. Or maybe silver, platinum, or white gold. I don’t have the right skin tone for yellow gold. I want to believe that something beautiful was created in the aftermath of destruction.
It was the last slide in that link above that really pushed me over the edge. “She is not afraid to love. The one thing she really fears is you not loving her back.” The worst thing in the world is not getting your heart broken again. It is choosing to hand over reassembled, lopsided, jagged, mismatched pieces of a broken heart to someone who doesn’t want them. Having it broken again means you opened up and loved, again. Having someone hand it back to you without learning anything about what is inside is worse. It becomes love that you can’t give away.
I am a broken girl. I’ve been damaged and hurt, picked up more pieced and dusted them off than I can remember. But I still love, deeply and intensely, passionately and fiercely. I don’t know how to do anything else. I don’t know how to be anything else.
Like the link says, I’m not afraid to talk about what and who broke me. It’s how you learn why I am who I am. How you learn why the walls are the way they are and how to scale them. How you learn why I may have opened a gate for you so you don’t have to scale the wall.
There’s a song that breaks my heart every time I hear it because I feel like it could have been written about me (to be fair, there are a few of those actually; the hazards of being a music lover). “She’ll tell you bad things, you’ll wish you could change, in the lazy summer. She’ll tell you laughing, down to her core, so she would not cry, as she lay in your lap.”