Kintsugi: The Art of Repair

DIY Projects,


NOTE: [For those of you who know me, in addition to writing and blogging, I love working on DIY projects. A friend recently suggested that when I blog about them, I include links to the various materials I use, which is why I included Amazon links in my post below.]   

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I forgot to put away my favorite pair of Grecian Goddess planters this winter. And with the snow and cold, Goddess Number One was damaged beyond repair and had to be thrown away.

Although cracked in several places, Goddess Number Two looked like she had a fixable chance. And anyway, I was up for the challenge of fixing something other than myself.

As I photographed her in all her brokenness, I was reminded of the Japanese art of Kintsugi, where broken pottery is repaired with lacquer mixed with a powder of precious metals like gold, silver, or platinum.

What I like best about Kintsugi is that there is no attempt to hide the damage—instead, the disfigurement is highlighted and illuminated, thus embracing the flawed and imperfect.

The repair concept is that damage, breaks, knocks, and shattering—to which all things are susceptible—are fixable if we give them the time and energy they deserve. Highlighting the cracks and repairs becomes part of the object’s life and story despite its broken and damaged state.

The process of Kintsugi ultimately creates an even more exquisite piece of art than before it broke.

As I prepared my Goddess planter for repair, I decided to name her μόνος (monos), which means “only” or “alone” in Greek.

 With no lacquer or precious metals on hand, I mixed E6000 craft adhesive glue with some silver oil paint and began carefully mending Monos one crack at a time.

Some cracks required pouring a boatload of the adhesive mixture into gaping, precariously-close-to-crumbling crevices, while others were hairline and barely visible.

From my experience with Goddess Number One, I knew the unsuspecting hairline cracks were responsible for her disintegrating demise. So, I took great care in repairing Monos, addressing as many of her flawed issues as possible.

Midway through the process, I realized I should have used the smallest in my paintbrush set. Had I done so, Monos would have been way prettier.

As a perfectionist, I thought: Urgh. I messed up Monos using the wrong brush, and now I’ve ruined my chance at fixing/beautifying her. Should I toss her out like the other one?

I attempted to toss her out twice. And in the process of moving her around, even more of her face crumbled off, making my repair more difficult than if I had just left her sitting there untouched.

In the end, I decided to keep her. Who am I to be the judge or jury of  beauty? Plus, I reminded myself that fixing doesn’t always result in a beautiful outcome.

Four Thousand Weeks

Observe & Ponder

In 2021, Oliver Burkeman wrote a brilliant bestseller, Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals.

Four thousand weeks equates to 76.923 years. If Burkeman is correct, this leaves me with a little under five years to get sh*t done.

Some Jewish scholars, particularly within Kabbalah and Hasidic Judaism, believe that souls return to human form to complete an unfinished life or to rectify past actions.

So maybe I have more time than Burkeman thinks—assuming I return as someone else, my time might be indefinitely infinite.

And if there is any truth to what these Jewish scholars believe, I have a list of souls who may or may not be lurking around me—some who died too young and whom I miss terribly, and others who most definitely owe me some rectification.

The concept of “Gilgul,” the Hebrew word for “the transmigration of souls,” refers to moving a soul into another body upon death. This concept is also a central belief in many religions and philosophies, including Buddhism, Hinduism, and Sikhism.

It kind of creeps me out, but I also love it because it makes me hopeful that I can return to the beginning once I get to the end. Plus, I have a few past actions I would love to rectify.

Burkeman’s four-thousand-week theory, combined with Gilgul, reminds me that I need to make the most of the here and now because my time is quickly running out.

But rectifying past actions by returning to another human form sounds easier said than done, so I have a few questions:

  • What would a future apology by a future other body look like?
  • Plus, if my apology was already rejected, how would moving into another body change that?
  • And anyway, how does one choose another body? Does one simply stumble upon it, or do we have options?
  • And finally, whose body would I want to morph into? And what if this body I’m eyeing is already spoken for?

In Hinduism, karma determines what form the soul will take in the next life, so maybe I won’t have a choice. And karma can be tricky. You know what many say about karma being…

I probably have too much time on my hands, but the question of whose body I would like to morph into has given me a lot to think about these past few days.

After much thought ( I know I need a life), I decided that whatever is unfinished or needs rectifying, I need to do it soon and not rely on some other future body to do it for me.

As a control freak, I’m not leaving anything up to fate or karma, so I’m going with the Buddhist perspective: My actions in this life will eventually decide my fate in the next one, so I better get busy.

You Don’t Know Me

Poetry


In honor of International Women’s Day, I rummaged through my writings this morning for something to represent my social, economic, cultural, and political achievements. I decided to share my lame attempt at rap.

You Don’t Know Me

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. I barely know myself. Hell, I just recently found out that I’m a Syrian Jew. A Jew from my father’s side, a swarthy Syrian man I never knew. Because according to my mom, he was a hitman and gangster bad, so bad he couldn’t be a good dad, but not that long ago, I met his other kids, and they turned out fine, unlike me, who got screwed over by that pedophile stepdad of mine.

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you. You don’t know one thing about me. I come from the projects you see. Yet all you see is bright white, so you see easy, but my life has never been easy or bright. I get you, but you don’t get me because you’re too busy making your assumptions about what white is supposed to be.

I’m not even white; remember, I’m a Syrian Jew. I’m brown like you, but you don’t see brown at all; all you see is a Jew. And FYI, plenty of Jews aren’t white, but you don’t see that either. You’re as bad as those KKK whities who think every Jew is a tighty colonial miser.

And I don’t live in Israel, okay? I’m a hard-working, tax-paying citizen of the U.S. of A.

You don’t know me, and I don’t know you, but you think I hate you because you hate me even though we come from the same kind of barely-surviving family. But all you see is that I dress so pretty and speak so nice; you don’t know that the snapping of the traps kept me up all night, breaking the necks of the rats and the mice.

I speak so nice because that mother of mine was afraid that if her rich boyfriend found out that we were poor, he’d slam our faces flat against the wrong side of the money door. So, she sent me—her persuasive carrot—to charm school to learn diction at night. So, yeah, I learned to speak nice, alright, but don’t F with me because the projects, the rats, and the mice will seep right out of me, and I’ll give you one stark-crazy hell of a fight.

Growing up, my little body lacked food, and it was full of worms, but I’m not telling you this to make you squirm. I’m just trying to help you to see that you don’t know anything about me. All you see is white; you don’t see my trials, my tribulations, and my messed-up strife. I’ve been jumping through hoops to prove myself to white people my whole miserable life.

I get you, but you don’t get me; you’ve got no clue. You think I’m fancy pants, but oh no, I’m not, not with the crazy shit that I’ve been through. So, take another look because sometimes what you see isn’t what you get, and what you think you get about white isn’t always true.

So, take another look. Do you still see white? Oh yeah, I see you looking at me with a new eye. Don’t worry. Don’t be shy. I’m not judging you. It’s alright.

Because I think you’re finally getting it—I’m not that white. Now that I’ve told you just a little bit about the hell that I’ve been through, I can see that I’ve got you thinking that I might be more like you than you.

Me Too: A Poetic Timeline

Me Too

My newest release, Me Too: A Poetic Timeline, just came out, although I’ve been writing it since 1967.

One of the impetuses for publishing my book of poetry resulted from a rough conversation with my best friend about my sharing MeToo much, which triggered an onslaught of emotions. Well, maybe not an onslaught—just four.

My first emotion was anger directed at my friend for hurting me. Then, I was angry at myself for being unable to control my mouth, followed by pride in myself for speaking out. The fourth emotion was more of a resignation—the knowledge that most people will never understand the why and how of MeToo and me.

Following that frank conversation, I took a critical look at myself, my MeToo pain, and my inability to shut up about it, which had me asking myself: When is MeToo too much?

The answer that immediately came to my mind is NEVER.

But now that I’ve finally published my book, Me Too: A Poetic Timeline—a compilation of journal entries I’ve been writing for fifty-seven years—I feel a renewed sense of myself.

My MeToo book of poetry allowed me the freedom to speak my truth and gave me a sliver of peace—an infinitesimal sliver, but I’ll gladly take it.

During my 2024 process of going back in time, combing through five decades and hundreds of journal entries and poems, I realized that my MeToo life played out in four painful but definitive life-altering phases.

Phase One: Shut it

Phase Two: Whisper it

Phase Three: Scream it

Phase Four: Write it

And now, I’m hoping to get to the final phase—the one where I know MeToo will never be too much, but to a place where I can keep it to myself.

Me and MeToo will always be one. You see, it’s at the heart of who I am.

At first, I thought the final phase would be like the phrase in the movie The Ten Commandments: “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

But now I realize that my Me Too nightmare will never be done, but at least now it’s written.