I collect beauty. Sometimes found, sometimes made. I clothe our home in things that speak to me. That carry a part of us or share a piece of our story.
These aren’t simply pretty somethings from a furniture store. They are memories made tangible in a souvenir shell and loved ones seen in a sewing table. Simple items holding significance beyond their price tag.
Sadly, these precious things are breaking. Being broken. Crushed. Slammed. Cracked. Sometimes accidentally, sometimes intentionally. By children far more precious than any something.
And yet, I find that it’s still important for me to let them see me mourn when beauty is lost. If only for a moment.
Once upon a time, that seemed to encourage the breaking. My dear foster daughter saw that she had some piece of power over my feelings. She felt control as she saw me wince and she liked it.
But as more things break and love for the breaker and not for the broken still holds, I see regret growing.
And not simply for the fear of lost potato chips or screen time. Though naturally that weighs heavy.
With tears, she asks what her consequence will be for breaking my antique rocking chair from my beloved aunt Betty.
I hug her. To comfort and to stall, as I search for a natural consequence like all the books recommend. I find none. And so I ask her to create something beautiful for me because she took something beautiful from me.
That day’s busyness got the best of us all and the next day and the next day and soon we had all nearly forgotten the request. Until one day she handed me this.
Artwork with a note reading “I broke your beuty. I give you beuty.”
And indeed she has. Far more beauty than any thing could ever capture.
I’m finding my broken pieces carry more of us than any of my perfect ones do.
They share our story.