Golden Repair

Mon, 06/03/2019 - 01:38 -- azura

“forget your perfect offering

just ring the bells that still can ring

there is a crack in everything

that’s how the light gets in”

-Leonard Cohen

 

there is a crack in everything

 

my professor shows us kintsukuroi tea cups on the projector.

the Japanese to English translation means

“golden repair”

 

she says traditionally,

the same tea cups are used in ceremonies for generations,

their cracks filled in with gold.

it’s the damage that makes them beautiful

 

that’s how the light gets in

 

I used to see myself as a glass half empty

my heart, the size of my fist

too often giving myself beatings

until potential

leaked through the cracks i made

 

i said, “my idealized self would have fixed these by now”

her, some invincible spiritual plumber  

self cares as a pastime & is never late

 

her confidence doesn’t have an asterix at the end.

all her cracks are endearing & forgivable.

she gets a red ribbon cutting when they’re fixed within a two day weekend.

 

meanwhile, no one threw a ceremony

when i managed to get out of bed.

 

do my cracks even deserve gold when they take this long to fix?

 

my liquid motivation spilled on the bedroom floor, the bus seat, the hallways

all the countless hours i wasted

trying to find the newest, quickest method of growing up alone.

 

on the worst days, when my wounds heal into thicker skin

i dig into my heart’s topsoil

for feeling

try to rip this numbness out like a bad root

try to hold

feeling

like scarce nuggets of gold

 

growing stronger means letting my wounds be tender,

golden, glowing, & feeling instead

it’s own type of healing instead

 

forget your perfect offering

 

the Latin to English translation of the word

patience

means “quality of suffering”

 

there will never be a time when i have outgrown hardship

this world doesn’t have that much patience for self care that interrupts the work week

yet here i am

reclaiming my time

forgiving myself for all i’ve let slip

 

I've stopped missing my idealized self because i will never meet her

I call recovery “healing” instead

because I know how it feels in my hands

because I don’t look for it in a mirror

just trust how it beats in my chest,

never as fast as I want,

but patiently doing the work nonetheless

 

I throw a small ceremony when I get out of bed  

I decide, that’s its own kind of beautiful ritual of patience

the kind able to be used
for centuries.

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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