I felt like bait for 2019. Thrown to the ocean, dropped and vulnerable to what chose to snag me and rip me to shreds - the over-sized parts of me swallowed hole by big creatures with plans, the particles and pieces floating for the mini fish, leftovers up for grabs. I got eaten alive this year. Consumed.
Can you relate?
2020 is spitting distance from now and while I'm excited for newness, experience and adventure - I'm more curious than anything. Humbly waiting. Mindfully reassembled with a few fragments to go, not sure where to place certain remains because my intentions haven't been sorted. But the most important parts, they're there. Ready. I'm ready. And I'm still broken.
And it's okay.
It's okay not to feel whole.
It's okay to wonder how to put yourself back together.
It's okay that "put together" feels less than an ideal way of being - we're going forward, mind you, not back, and "together" isn't a goal. Not any more.
Still yet - we are whole despite our brokenness. Never once did wholeness imply that we hadn't fallen a thousand times in getting there. Or that wholeness was the result of a job-well-done, a pat on the back or a good grade. We can lose people on the road to wholeness - lots of them sometimes.
We can be wholly disassembled, peering at ourselves, in parts, pieces, and say "thank you" for the opportunity to place ourselves more mindfully together, yet differently this time.
Kintsukuroi (金繕い, or "golden repair" is a Japanese art form where broken pieces of pottery are mended with lacquer mixed with powdered gold, making the repairs visible and also beautiful.
That's my goal. I want powdered gold. I want pretty glue - for lack of profundity. I want my fragmented parts exposed and to show intentional restoration.
That's what I want.