Семья превращает разбитые вещи в искусство, следуя философии кинцуги

“The light outside looks weird,” my daughter texted as I stood in my garden, bathed in that weird light, half expecting a sandstorm. I’d noticed the unusual yellow glow just moments before and stepped outside to see what the world may have been up to while I wasn’t paying attention.  Everything around me was awash in a warm amber hue, as if someone had dipped the universe in a cup of gold, gilding it to its very edges.  The white umbrella tilting dangerously close to the pool didn’t look so dangerous anymore. My purple house was fairytale-like even without its prince. The pool itself invited me to swim through its golden liquid. It had all taken on a magical quality that made sharp edges softer, flat surfaces shadowy, imperfections beautifully illuminated in the forgiving light of this golden hour. Weatherbeaten, rickety Adirondacks, their paint peeling red, yellow, blue, orange, held the ghostly outlines of former occupants, leaning back, faces upturned, soaking in the light. I’d looked down at my hands, rivulets of veins burnished in the setting sun, my wedding ring molten with memories, fused with history and grief. Even the chunk of granite that had broken off the umbrella stand shimmered and winked, its mica secrets exposed. I’d watched the red umbrella lift into the air and throw itself into the pool a couple weeks prior, a gust of wind strong enough to free it from its moorings lifting the entire base before setting it back down with a thud, a thick, jagged corner breaking off. I’d kept it as I do most broken things; to be mended, cherished, transformed. When we’d moved back to Davis all those years ago, the lovely man had accidentally dropped a box filled with his great aunt Hilda’s dishes. A good portion of the set survived and whatever didn’t, turned into material for a mosaic; which explains the presence of gold trimmed burgundy porcelain shards with faint traces of etched pink roses and delicate green leaves embedded into a round stepping stone in the center of my rose garden. I hadn’t been as zealous about preserving the remnants of mishaps and destruction before the lovely man’s exit had cracked us all. But in his absence items have taken on added value, pieces of our story that need to be told so we won’t all simply disappear.  Not long after he died, I’d reached for the sugar bowl that lives on a top shelf in our kitchen cabinet, its lid slipping, hitting the granite counter and breaking into bits. I’d gone to pieces, too, staring at the wreckage and weeping like a child. That sugar bowl is part of a generous wedding present we’d received; dishes we’d chosen together as we walked through Macy’s kitchenware department. It had taken some convincing to get me to warm to the idea of a wedding registry; I’d been raised to graciously accept gifts, not ask for them. Telling people what I wanted just didn’t sit well. Yet my mother-in-law explained that it would make it easier for others if I did, so I’d complied and got the hang of it pretty quickly. We’d selected a set with dark-blue leaves and vines against a tan background; the set that graced our table for 27 years of holidays, bearing Hanukkah latkes, Passover briskets, Rosh Hashana apples dipped in luxurious honey over which the lovely man would recite a blessing in an ancient tongue. Matching bowls had been filled to the brim with curried pumpkin soup in winter, cold cherry soup in summer, matza balls when anyone was under the weather. And that sugar bowl was placed in the middle of the holiday table as meals came to an end and coffee was served alongside desserts and conversation with friends and family who’d gathered to celebrate. And I’d shattered a piece of that set, a piece of our story. I could have easily replaced the lid, which is certainly not one-of-a-kind, but that was never an option. Not for me and not for my son, who understood the gravity of the loss and didn’t for a moment look at me like the lunatic most folks would have thought I’d become. Instead, he carefully glued the lid back together, and the scars the pottery now bears have become the next chapter of its story. The sugar bowl lid is not the only victim of mishap in our home.   Next to our front door is a table bearing souvenirs from several visits to the Druze villages in northern Israel. Colorful, bustling markets where we’d spent many an afternoon chatting with shop owners and sipping thick Turkish coffee they insisted we have as we meandered through veritable Alladin’s caves, making our fragile selections. The display by the door had been arranged by the lovely man; a large colorful bowl flanked by a smaller one and a vase and two plates on display stands. They’d been there unscathed for years until the sleeve of my robe knocked into the one with the word shalom painted in its center in Arabic, English and Hebrew. With one careless swoop of my arm I’d destroyed the peace in three different languages. Then I swore in as many, loudly and angrily as I swept the dozen or so pieces into a dust pan. My son knew the drill. Glue, patience, no questions asked. He’d been to those villages, met those hospitable shop owners and he knows what those adventures with his father still mean to me.  That patience was displayed when he spent hours weaving thin coppery wires dotted with tiny solar lights through the skeleton of a garden umbrella. The lovely man had saved the wooden frame after I’d seen one displayed in a gallery in Placerville and found its twinkling simplicity enchanting. He’d never had a chance to see the project through so his son spent an afternoon painstakingly turning what no longer served its original purpose into a work of art that came to life in our garden with every nightfall. Repairing rather than discarding is not a new concept. The Japanese mend pottery with gold, an art known as kintsugi. Instead of doing away with what has been broken, they fix it and make it that much more beautiful, not by hiding the flaws but by drawing attention to the golden seams connecting them all.  The cracks in everything that’s been shattered in this family are still visible. I’ve never tried to hide the damage and we’ve all been altered by it. All the pieces bearing scars are part of our story, precious shards made stronger despite their imperfections; made stronger because of the resilience it takes to pick up broken pieces, our own and each other’s, put them back together, and fill those seams with gold.   — Karen Levy is a longtime Davis resident and author of “My Father's Gardens” (2014 Pushcart Prize nominee). She believes in the magic of a good movie, fine port, kindness, and the power of words.