A jaunt down memory lane . . .
When I was a little girl, I had
a broken glass collection. It
consisted of quarter size pieces,
each a different color. I used
to love taking them out of my
special basket, holding them
up to the light and seeing their
splendor. I cleaned and shined
them very carefully. It was
important to handle the pieces
delicately because on could
easily get cut.
A few of the other girls in my
class also collected glass. If one
of us had a couple pieces of a
given color, then we could trade
to each enhance our collections.
Thinking back, they were quite
unusual. Quite pretty, some
beautiful, all unique, and we
could actually afford them;
go figure!
I hark back to those days, that
experience, and remember a sweet
collection of what was beautiful in
my eyes. I ponder . . . why can't
I see the beautiful in the broken
pieces of my own soul? Surely,
there are bits that are remarkable,
others that are wondrous. And,
although some are sad, if not
downright sorrowful, do they not
come together in an amazing
mosaic?!
I find I must honor the artist who
so carefully collected those pieces
tried the different colors on for size,
and carefully placed each in a way
to create a whole . . . perhaps, art
in a different venue . . . but art
nonetheless.
learning to love me
some acceptance required
a price to be paid
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