When I was born, I had so many beautiful things. They were precious, special, just for me. But someone kept breaking them. I thought she would help me look after them, but instead she dropped them, smashed them, kicked them away. The more I asked her to stop, the more she seemed to relish taking them away from me.
Even though I tried to understand that she was sad, as people had broken all that was special and precious to her; it was so hard to live in the darkness, the broken shards cutting in to me.
So eventually I decided no more, and I stopped her coming in to my space and breaking all of my things. I spent years slowly repairing the damage, putting all of the broken pieces together again. It was hard work, and nothing ever looked quite the same. I tried to love them anyway, in spite of the cracks, because of the cracks. I surrounded myself with people who didn’t see the broken pieces, just the care I had taken to put them back together.
But then this person started to break other things. She dropped them, and smashed them and kicked them away. It was such a mess, shattered pieces everywhere.
I was tired, so tired, from the years of repairing my own things. I had to be so careful with them now, they were fragile, each crack held together with nay but the hope they would hold. How could I be expected to clean up her mess? Fix everything that she had broken, again and again?
Here I was, in the light, staring at everything she had tried to pull down, the darkness that tried to bury each tiny broken piece. It was not my responsibility to clean up again, to fix all she had broken again.
The thing is, I know more than anyone else how to put all the tiny pieces together. I can see the beauty, how precious and special each and every single broken piece is. I may not know how they fit back together again, but I have complete faith that they will go back together.
So I gathered all the broken pieces and I took them home. I spread them out in my light, took a deep breath and whispered, “Let’s put you back together.”