Repair with gold

I love metaphors. They are a shortcut to the subconscious, opening a world of meaning and insight that can be difficult to tap into in our rational daily lives. One of the most useful metaphors that I once uncovered for myself gave me an understanding of who I was that has stayed with me for decades and still challenges me today.

The metaphor for my life I believed was that of a mountaineer. Carrying a large backpack containing everything I’d ever need, I was armed with a walking pole, equipped for whatever challenges would come my way. I was independent and capable, looking only ahead.

As I worked with that metaphor over the years, I realised that invulnerability was not always serving me. Others didn’t necessarily stop to help a person who appeared so competent. As life buffeted me throughout my forties and fifties, I learned to soften the barriers that separated me from others, express my feelings, and most importantly, accept help.

It’s almost 3 months since I lost my husband Ken of 20 years. People expect that I’ll be grieving and lonely, but I’ve been neither. What has happened is that multiple elements of my everyday life have cracked open.

This house was built about 18 years ago and it has chosen 2024 as The Year of Maintenance. A few years ago, I persuaded Ken that we needed a handyman, and a gardener, as he became increasingly less able. Reluctantly, he agreed, and both these people have become invaluable, almost members of the family.

Recently, I’ve had roofing and other leaks repaired, numerous carpentry tasks completed, tens of downlights replaced with LED bulbs, prickly trees removed, and toilets unclogged.

Ken had been a telecommunications engineer and was on the spot in an instant whenever an information technology problem arose. However, he had set up systems in our two-storey house which are too complex for me to manage alone. I convinced him that we needed to have an IT person whom I could call on. Sure enough, problems arose virtually immediately after Ken’s death, with a major NBN outage in our street. My trusted IT person has visited frequently ever since, largely arising from the need to rationalise all the computers in the house. The latest collapse is the surveillance system.

I’ve not been a passive bystander in all this. I learned a lot from Ken over the years and have solved many problems myself – including how to unclog a toilet! The details don’t really matter – I’m writing here to understand why this is having such a large impact on my life. What is the universe trying to tell me? Is it just coincidence or is there something I can learn?

I’m not grieving and I’m not lonely; I have ample resources to deal with what might seem like trivial issues. But amid rivers of kindness flowing from everyone around me, I do feel broken by the relentless nature of these assaults.

I turned to the art world for guidance, following an image of smashed tiles, reconstituted into a stunning mosaic. Broken tile art is called trencadis, a Catalan term meaning ‘broken up’.  Yes … but no.

Eventually I stumbled upon kintsugi – the centuries-old Japanese art of repairing broken objects, often treasured pieces of ceramic pottery or glass. Kintsugi means ‘joined with gold’. Urushi, a lacquer derived from tree sap, is used to stick the broken shards together. Gold or other similar finishing powder is dusted over the lacquer.

I love the idea that through the acts of breaking and repair, an even more beautiful object emerges.

I’d heard of kintsugi before, but not known the Japanese philosophy that underpins it. The first is wabi-sabi – the acceptance of impermanence and imperfection. Rather than demanding perfection, it encourages delight in the irregularities and inconsistencies of the human hand, demonstrated in the repair.

Then there is the Japanese philosophy of mottainai which elevates minimising waste almost to a virtue. Salvaging a possession and making it whole again means disposal is avoided and a replacement need not be purchased.

The final concept is mushin, described as a mental flow that frees us from the dread of change and allows us to accept fate with quiet acceptance.

Thus, new life becomes possible.

The mountaineer who finds it hard to grieve loss or feel alone is still within me, never far from the surface. Perhaps the crumbling of so many simple support structures of my life – the roof of my house, my lights, my computers, my security system, even a toilet – is a compelling reminder of impermanence, of imperfection, and of the inevitability of change.

My life, like a favourite object, has been dropped – but it survives. Nothing is beyond repair, physically or metaphorically. My life won’t be what it was before, but I will be more open to the experiences of grief and loss, and forever grateful for what I have.

I have my new metaphor. Practicing the art of kintsugi, seated at my work bench, I will patiently repair broken things, precious things, with gold. All the while, mindful of impermanence, of imperfection, and of the inevitability of change. Metaphorically, of course.

To all my readers, thank you for walking with me through the writing and publication of my memoir ‘A Fragile Hold’, and my caring journey with Ken. I’m not sure what form my writing will take next year but we’ll see. In the meantime, my wishes for a joyful and restorative break and the best for 2025.