Broken
March 12 2015

The big ceramic mug
made of earthy stuff
like mud, porcelain, clay,
a substance that suits its weight
and constancy.

Solidly set 

on the kitchen table,

its thick-walled heft
armoured

in a hard enamel coat.

So when it lost its handle
I took it badly;
bone-white, where it cracked
in a jagged edge
beyond repair.

It looks wounded, unbalanced;
like a one-armed man,
the abandoned half
that was a couple, once.

How I loved that mug,
its generous grip, substantial lip
in a subdued bluish-grey,
finished flat
with a glossy swirl.

Beyond repair, they informed me.
But still, I can cup it in my hands
surround its warmth.
Because there is something about being broken
that makes us want to take care
accept without judgement,
ease suffering
console the hurt.

A favourite mug
that has faithfully served
will always have its place.

They don't make big heavy mugs like this, anymore: not with such substantial handles and wide lips and hefty walls; none that sit so solidly on the kitchen table. I have a matching one; but a crack has also appeared in its handle, so it's only a matter of time.

Broken things -- like a wounded bird, a limping pup, an injured child -- arouse a protective instinct in us. Inanimate objects can, as well. To me, my favourite mug looks somehow vulnerable, incomplete, and in need of love.

(Coincidentally, twice in the past 3 days I came across a completely new word, Kintsugi (from the Japanese), which is the art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with gold, silver, or platinum. The aesthetic idea is to incorporate the history of breakage and repair into the piece, rather than attempt to camouflage it. A local potter told me that my broken mug is unfixable. Perhaps he wasn't familiar with the Japanese art of Kintsugi. Or perhaps he was, but also knew that this technique won't work on a handle.)