THE BROKEN CUP
They say you can’t pour from an empty cup. Meaning of course that you cannot give more than you have. Logically, this makes sense – we know that you cannot produce something out of nothing. Another of these anecdotes is that you can’t squeeze water from a rock. I have found both to be accurate, in the physical sense as well as in the implied emotional and financial sense.
Grief on the other hand, is a beast all of its own. Grief does not take from your cup in the natural sense of pouring out with effort, love, duty, etc. Grief, while natural in essence, is altogether a different, otherworldly experience. One that you cannot understand without having felt its grip.
Let’s imagine for a moment, that your cup is full – fully, brimmed to the top full. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? You feel you have all the energy, time, love, etc. that you need to go about your days in a state of equilibrium. As you give, you replenish – lovely. Now, picture a small rock – it could be jagged and rough or smooth like a pebble. This rock, of whatever shape and texture, is no bigger than your thumb and no heavier than a deck of cards. It has some heft to it but you can easily move it around in your hands without effort. This rock, as you may have guessed, will symbolize grief. The loss of a loved one perhaps, or the downfall of your professional career, maybe bankruptcy. A devastating moment in life that shakes you to your core.
I like to think of my rocks in this way: the more profound the grief, the uglier and sharper the rock.
Suddenly, without warning, this rock is thrown at your beautifully full cup. It does not fall inside the cup but it hits it on the side, creating a crack. This is where the shape of your rock will matter. The loss of a child, for example, may be a ugly, jagged rock with razor-like points on all sides. This rock will make a much more significant crack in your cup than say a smooth pebble symbolizing the death of an aunt you spoke to on holidays…
Both rocks cause damage, this is certain, but as to how much is up to you to determine. Nevertheless, there is now a crack in your cup that is leaking out your precious life liquid. Depending on the damage done, you may be able to fill it back up as you go about your life and maybe even patch it up after a while, maybe using adhesives such as therapy, journaling, meditation, or other forms of self-care.
In my experience however, and sadly perhaps in yours too, there is more than one rock. Before you have time to patch up the first crack a second, third and fourth rock hurl themselves into your cup. Now your cup is in critical condition. Barely holding itself together, it is more focused on staying intact than refilling. This is the point at which your cup will empty faster than you can process its damage. In my own situation, six separate rocks were thrown at my cup before the seventh and fatal hit smashed it into what I truly believed at the time was a state beyond repair.
In the span of one year I was hit with the death of five grandparents, the trauma of nursing my mother (as well as my father and their three grandchildren) through her cancer journey, and the loss of my support animal/best friend.
Some of these rocks had periphery pebbles… In the process of supporting my family through my mother’s cancer treatments and long-term hospital stay, I was hit with unresolved childhood trauma, a suicidal father, the collapse of my new (yet wildly successful) business, the loss of friends whom I’d considered to be life-long, as well as the stress of trading my lovely home in the Caribbean for sleeping in the unfinished basement of my friends house, in the winter…in Canada. Several months of these ridiculously painful pebbles crashing into my cup and I was done. Without a shadow of a doubt my cup was bone dry and not even really in one piece. But it was a cup – I still had a cup and I was going home to mend and fill it.
That’s when the fatal blow of the ugliest rock you’ve ever seen obliterated my cup. Where there once stood a beautiful, filled to the brim, at times even spilling out over the edge the water the surface below, was now a mess of shattered glass. My Shadow – my companion, my jungle kitty who sauntered on into my life and never looked back – even when it meant suffering through a Canadian winter and multiple flights – my Shadow was taken from me so suddenly and unexpectedly, without even a concrete explanation.
The broken remnants of my cup cut me up inside, a physical hurt that came crashing down hard and heavy on my entire body. I had survived the Canadian torment, WE had survived. We were home and there was nothing stopping us from healing and moving on. Then my sweet sweet girl was taken from me, ripped out of my life without a goodbye, and I was left with only one choice. Stare at the pieces of my broken cup or retreat into the numbing darkness.
I chose the latter.
And I stayed there until I was ready to come back out.
REBIRTH
The Japanese art of rebuilding broken items into masterpieces is so spot on that it doesn’t matter if it’s cliche or not. It simply is the pinnacle of metaphors for transformation. You may prefer the phoenix rising from the ashes, a lovely alternative. For me however it seems too sudden, too quick. It touches on the pain of burning down to nothing yet doesn’t take into account the time or care that goes into the rebirth. The countless attempts and miserable falls. I like to imagine the artist as they carefully select each piece, sometimes dropping a delicate sliver and cursing under their breath as they attempt to reposition it once again. The painstaking work and long hours that go into rebuilding my plain ol’ regular water glass and in the process transforming it into a unique and untraditionally beautiful carafe. Each piece hand painted, masterfully interlocked with golden strokes of love and grace. My cup is now larger, stronger and infused with the magical intuition that comes with deep pain. It has lived one life and is now ready to take on another.