Moth Mug: Finding Beauty In the Broken

New Beginnings

When I found out I was pregnant, I was overjoyed and incredibly sick. Morning sickness seeped into the afternoon and continued into the evening. The second and third trimester were hardly better—less constant but more intense. My baby and I were perfectly healthy, but I was miserable and exhausted. This cup held the tea my husband brought to bed for me on most evenings, something I never asked him to do but greatly appreciated. It didn't help the nausea, of course, but I felt so incredibly loved.

My daughter's early life I like to call my clumsy period: constantly forgetting dates, appointments, commitments, and dropping every mug and teacup I touched. To be honest, I don’t even remember how this one came to break. I’d come to accept the comings and goings of the objects in my home (a toddler will make you much less precious about that sort of thing). I was used to breaking things, hence the rest of the series.

What set this teacup apart was the pang of excitement I felt when it shattered. Sad the cup broke, yes, but excited at an excuse to paint. Usually, breaking a sentimental piece would elicit deep sorrow and an eruption of memories. I felt almost sadistic in the way I welcomed its reincarnation as a painting. 

With the loss came opportunity for reflection. When something sat in my cupboard, a part of my daily routine, I never thought about what it meant to me or why. Once it's gone, I find reason to slow down, to meditate on it. I’ve learned to celebrate the broken pieces; elevating the cracks and the paintings higher than the objects they inhabit. Even as I write this, having painted some of these two years ago, I am processing and reprocessing the sentimental value of each ceramic. I'm finding new meaning in the objects that I keep in my home and heart.