I’m a little embarrassed to admit that it took me more than fifty years to realize that the old saying “Life is what happens while you’re making other plans” means exactly what it says. To understand that this moment—not the one when I finally get my act together and all is right with the world—is Life. The body slam of that sudden insight was like rounding a corner to come face-to-face with Wonder Woman only to find that she is far shorter than I imagined, with mismatched socks and bad breath.
That epiphany spotlighted what I’d missed, or perhaps willfully ignored. I have spent far too much time wishing “tough” times behind me and longing for the “good” era of my life. Now, in my middle age, nowhere near the life I envisioned at 18 or 25 or even 30, I find myself in an unexpected role, pursuing a career I never dared to dream of, brought here by adventures and experiences I could never have predicted. Sometimes that awareness is cold water in my face. Other times it is a warm blanket on a chill night.
I can’t help but compare this to storytelling, and the art of writing.
Have you ever seen kintsugi? those pieces of broken pottery repaired by gold-dusted laquer so that the cracks are actually highlighted? The idea therein is that the cracks are part of the piece’s history, that we should embrace the repairs rather than reject them. It’s the same with us. Our flaws make us more beautiful. More interesting. More real. Those cracks are often where stories come from in the first place.
Don’t believe me?
A baby was born into a happy home where her parents adored her and provided every opportunity for advancement. The girl took advantage of this priceless gift, pursuing and excelling at the things that made her heart sing. After high school, she went on to a lovely, affordable college, graduated with high honors and no crippling debt. In the years that followed, she continued to work in her chosen field, which fulfilled her in almost every way. She met and married the partner of her dreams, built a family, bought a beautiful home in a lovely, safe neighborhood. Their credit cards were paid every month. The family never wanted for anything. Their cars never broke down and they were never late for work. Their children were beautiful, well-behaved, with high marks in school. The whole family was happy and healthy, and no heartache or tragedy ever touched them. And they all lived long, satisfying lives. The end.
How much of that book would you read? Probably not much. It’s boring. There’s no escape in such a story. As counterintuitive as it seems, the suffering of the protagonist makes the story more compelling, doesn’t it? In the end, even if she doesn’t “win” (however you define that concept), the story is in the struggle. In the cracks. We don’t skip over the tragedy in a novel only to read the parts that give us the warm fuzzy. More likely than not, we couldn’t understand the warm fuzzy without seeing how it is informed by the tragedy.
I’m still new at appreciating my own brokenness and the idea that life is a pot-holed road. Even so, I find that these flaws hold not only new stories, but clues toward understanding older ones. Perhaps, as the kintsugi artists portray, there really is gold to be found in every crack. We just need to know how to see it.