Kintsugi is a style of Japanese pottery that repairs broken bowls and the like not by hiding where it’s been broken but highlighting where it’s been broken. With gold.
(Source)
I love that idea.
Who among us hasn’t been broken; physically, mentally, or emotionally? Life can be hard, life can be unfair, life can be full of terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days. I don’t think it’s a sign of weakness to break. I’m not alone in this thinking, either. You’ve probably heard Nietzsche’s saying “that which doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger.”
By being broken and mended with the seams on display, the bowl above becomes something special. My favorite color is blue and that bowl’s blue speaks to me. (It says “Look, I’m pretty!”) Gold, though? Meh. I’m not a fan. I’ve never worn any gold jewelry. I’ve never looked at a gold necklace or gold earring (I had one in high school and college) and thought, “Say I gotta get me that!” The closest I’ve come to liking gold is the Bruin’s colors. But let’s be honest, that’s more yellow than gold. Gold simply does not hold any sway over me.
Yet there’s something beautiful about the gold on that bowl. It calls to my attention but not in an ostentatious way. It’s not the star of the show. It’s in a supporting role. It tells a story in all its fractured glory. It’s been through some stuff. And is proud of it. Sure, the bowl could have been glued together and faked its wholeness. Only a close inspection would have revealed that someone introduced the bowl to the floor. (I’ve been there!) But instead someone aided it and that aid is on full display. Speaking of aids…
Earlier this year, I got tired of my hearing aids being seen only on a close inspection. Though some would not view my hearing loss as being broken, I do. I live in the hearing world and my ears don’t hear well. I’m not a whole hearing person, nor am I a whole Deaf person. I’m broken. And my Bruins-colored molds call attention to that brokenness. I’m not ashamed of my brokenness. I’m not mad at my brokenness. I’m not going to pretend that my brokenness doesn’t make my life harder, more frustrating, more expensive. It does all that and more. But my bionic ears also make me more. More than my hearing loss.
But I couldn’t be more than my hearing loss until I got my hearing aids. And even when I did, it took me literal decades before I started being up front about it. The only one my bluffing fooled was me. There were many a fractured conversation, many a failed request, many a flummoxed interlocutor before I started helping them help me. It started with a button at work that says “please be patient I’m hard of hearing” and it’s come to those aforementioned Bruins’ colors molds. It doesn’t always work.
There are times when I see that quick flick of the other person’s eyes telling me they noticed one of my bionic ears. Yet they still meet my repeated “whats” with anger or pity. Maybe they think it’s a bluetooth headset, maybe they don’t think at all. Like the gold glue on the Kintsugi bowl, my multi-colored bionic ears are taken in as just a part of me. They warrant a closer inspection to truly understand what’s being seen. An inspection that can take the form of leaning in for a closer look or leaning into curiosity and asking me “Hey, what’s with the weird thingies in your ears?” This inspection happens but rarely. Still, though, it does happen. And more often now that I’ve put my Kintsugi’d ears on display. They help me to raise awareness, to lower stigma about hearing loss.
Kintsugi revels
in adaptability.
Flaws are beautiful.
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