Snow
Day Number Two. The house is warm and secure, but parts of it are what you
might call ‘broken.’ It needs so much work. Essentially it is solid, but I see
the places where restoration needs to happen, where cracks and shifts show me
what it needs. Brokenness is sometimes just a pain in the ass, but it can also
be beautiful. As I sit and look out over the snow-touched landscape of the
mountain forest outside my window, I see the beauty in the brokenness of the
big hornets’ nest falling apart in the cold winter air. I see it in the
psychedelic vibrancy of the top part of a glass Victorian gazing ball I once
had on a stand in the front yard. Now the glass ball sits atop the glass table
on my snowy deck and captures hints of the shapes surrounding it. I notice the
shards of a broken cup, pale green and cream colored with strands of
peat-brown. I remember when an old boyfriend of mine, a man I almost married, bought
me that cup at the local Arts Center. There were tiny insects—not
ants, more like candleflies or termites, but not quite those either---all over
the larger, deeper pieces of pottery on the table with the cup. There was
something haunting and curiously compelling about their presence, there in the
sharpening air of late autumn. I think now too about the brokenness of memory,
or its potential brokenness. Who can say when a memory’s life becomes broken?
Perhaps it never fully does. I do know that the courage a person with such a
memory can have is more powerful than many other things that are, or seem to
be, fully intact, whole, and undamaged. The way such a person asks kindly and
respectfully for the favor of a phone call for information, over and over even
after the information was acquired and written down in two places, can begin to
break my heart. I think of the patience that question entails. Its asking
implies that that question has already, perhaps, been asked and not
acknowledged or responded to. It does not harbor irritation or anger in the
context of that. It just, quietly and lovingly, asks again. There is something
about that echo that reminds me of the grace of prayer. I am not sure if I am
thinking about the listener or the one who is praying, or maybe of the Voice of
God and the one receiving that Voice. Maybe it’s a dialectic of both. Maybe the
asking and the answering are so closely connected that they can become almost
the same. I don’t know what that would look or sound like. Maybe that coming
together would obliterate the need for asking, but maybe not. Maybe the asking
would carry its own grace, its own respectful, adoring petition for inclusion
in the heartbeat of relationship. There is, inherent in all of this, a sweet
brokenness that, paradoxically, is not truly and finally broken at all, at
least not in any sense that keeps out what needs to get in or keeps in what
needs to be released. This Lent, living into that heartbeat seems to be what I
need. I don’t know how to define it or describe it more concretely or
adequately. It wants to come to live in my heart, and I want to let it. That’s
all I seem to need to know for now.
©Laura Sorrells 2015
all rights reserved
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