Broken, but not destroyed

When you're picking up the pieces, rebuilding every part of your life, it's like picking up the pieces after your home was demolished by a tornado.

You try to put things back together the way they were, but that's not possible. Some things are completely destroyed. Some things that you loved but there's no getting them back. You mourn. You grieve. And you get over it, sorta. But every so often, when you're quiet and a lot of times when you least expect it, it rises up again inside you and in public you stifle some tears. You sigh. And you remember what you did just recently to pick yourself up again, and that's what you do.

And then there are things that you can put back together but they're just not the same. A once-beautiful vase is all glued back together, but the cracks are there and it's just not as smooth and beautiful as before. But it's there, whole.

You keep what you can, save what you can, and sometimes you just tough it up and throw things out.

Some things should have been thrown away a long time ago.

But the one thing you do is get rid of what destroyed your house in the first place, however you choose to do that. Move out of Tornado Alley. Or like the smart little pig, rebuild your house with bricks, to protect yourself the best you can.

And, if you're like me, you find yourself back where you started. And it's a little freaky. And, if you're like me, you wonder if you're getting a second chance at something you should have done in the first place. Do you find yourself at the same square one because that's where you were supposed to be in the first place? Do you find yourself there because that's where you were supposed to be and until you get it right you're going to find yourself going back there until you do get it right?

Almost thirty years ago I was in the same place. A copywriter at an ad agency. Living in the city. With a woman, a social worker, no less, who has the same ideas and hopes and dreams of the way a life should be lived and shared. In a big funky apartment in an old house in a beautiful old neighborhood. As then, we're embarking on a life that includes travel and music and books. It's filling up with an odd collection of furniture. There are as many bookcases as there are chairs. Actually, bookcases outnumber the chairs about three to one.

A comfortable old kitchen where good food will be made, because food is like love, and you share it and enjoy it together and with family and friends. And we see something very beautiful in an old wok hanging among the other pots. Or an old cast iron skillet. As a matter of fact, there's something beautiful about those pots, their beauty is in the utilitarian thing that they do. And they even make a beautiful noise, like wind chimes, when you pull one off the wall. And there's even something elegant in the setup of the kitchen, that lets you move smoothly from the worktable where a glass of wine sits, to the stove, to the fridge.

And we treasure music and books. And conversation. The rooms are set up so people can sit and talk and enjoy one another, filled with light and music and plants. We're looking for old Orientals to cover the floor. Funky old lamps that don't match.

And while I wasn't able to raise a family in a apartment like this, maybe I can finish what's left of raising my two daughters. They both love the place, and like to come there, so maybe we can share where our lives have taken us there. And maybe, just maybe, what was destroyed in their lives, they may find there. Maybe a bit broken and cracked, but not destroyed.