Day #007

Day #007:

Kyoto.

The Shape of Healing.

Kyoto is a step back in time. It’s a city of preservation – where the old is not hidden, but revered. Nothing is discarded – it’s honored.

Cobblestone streets weave through shrines that have stood for centuries. Surrounded by ancient forests, knifing canals, and manicured farmlands – the city is a jewel of Japanese history, architecture, and religion.

Largely spared from American bombing during WW2, Kyoto continues to stand as the cultural capital of Japan. It sits at the intersection of where Japan’s reputation for discipline meets its reverence for work - crafts, arts, the Shogun.

I find myself sitting in a quiet studio tucked away from the throngs of tourists.

As is custom, shoes are removed at the entrance – slippers are placed on the feet. Mine are several sizes too small.

The smell of lacquer wafts through the air.

The sound of small drill bits and sandpaper fill the room.

In a room this still, the loudest thing is your own unrest. Your own impatience.

I sit down like an attentive student. I’m here to learn – I’m here for the experience. And if I move too quickly, I fear I’ll miss the lesson.

A small blue plate is in front of me. Broken. A still life in fragility.

Shards of its former self are displayed on the table.

Looking around the room, I’m surrounded by the remains of broken plates, bowls, pottery, and other items. Their fractured pieces neatly stacked on the shelves around the studio.

This is a kintsugi workshop – the centuries-old Japanese art of repairing the broken.

Actually – not so much repairing – transforming.

Over the next few hours. I’ll reassemble this blue plate.

Shards will be fused together – and their imperfections sealed with gold.

The kintsugi philosophy is simple and profound: Embrace the imperfections. See beauty in the brokenness.

Once I’m done with it, this blue plate won’t be the same as before.

It’ll be different.

And somewhere between the glue and the gold -  the beauty will come alive.

Everything about this quiet act in this hidden studio – the patience, the pressure, the mending – creates something new.  

I didn’t come here for therapy. I didn’t walk in expecting to confront anything personal…

But something about this room, this ritual, this reverence – it pulls at something deeper.  

I didn’t totally realize that when I walked into this quiet studio, I’d be learning more than an art form. I’d be learning how to celebrate broken things.

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Most of us are taught to hide our cracks. Mask our damage. Smooth over the parts of our surface that have fractured – with silence, shame, or an illusion of strength.

For years I have done that.

I kept my anxiety behind an exterior – panic attacks and depression behind closed doors.

I would sit in conference rooms – trembling – holding a glass of water with both hands just to stop the shaking.

I don’t know if anyone saw. Maybe they did and just didn’t say anything. Maybe not. I got pretty good at hiding.

Hotel rooms on business travel were my kryptonite. I would lay in bed – 3am – feeling nothing but loneliness. Unable to sleep – my mind would drift to the darker edges of reason.

There was a period of my life – years – where I struggled to leave home. Constant self-doubt and the ominous darkness of “what-if” questions nagged at me incessantly.

And what’s at stake? What will my anxieties cause me to lose – career, marriage, friends, community?

The overwhelming reality though - as it turns out - it's mostly me.

I lost my sense of ambition and certainty about my path in the world.

I lost my sense of self-worth and confidence.

I lost my sense of purpose.

For years, I tried to return to the person I once was – before burnout, before prescriptions, before spirals.

I have spent much of my adult life trying to glue myself back together.

Carefully – like designing a blueprint.

Quietly – so no one would see.

Desperately – because I didn’t know what else to do.

I used every tool I could find - I tried acupuncture. Then Ativan. I tried hypnosis, meditation, prayer, alcohol – anything to feel mended back together.

Sometimes it helped. Most of the time, I fell apart all over again.

I kept trying to rebuild a version of myself I thought I was supposed to be – the driven professional. The partner. The friend. The son.

But no matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t get the pieces to line up right.

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Kintsugi isn’t about pretending the break never happened. It’s about honoring the fault lines.

Filling the fractures with gold – make them stronger. Make them shine.

It’s declarative: This piece was broken. Now it holds. Now it’s more beautiful than ever.

At my table, I rearrange the shards of glass into the plate-like shape.

The big pieces stare at me. Resting on the table in front of me.

Immediately, I can tell the plate is incomplete. Some smaller pieces are gone.

They’re not coming back.

This performance is intentional.

With the precision of a surgeon, the plate is assembled. Lacquer fragments attach.

Tape secures the connection – stitches across the body of the plate.

Each new attachment – a row of stitches.

With each new connection, it’s clear this is no longer the same plate.

The assembly highlights the extent of damage that was done.

The scars are obvious.

Using a thin brush, I dab gold paint along the seams of the plate’s former fragments.

Hundreds of tiny dots. Each one delivered with purpose.

Like pointillism for the soul.

This is the moment the transformation becomes truly visible.

It’s time consuming. It’s meditative. Each point is unique.

You’re no longer hiding the break. You’re honoring it.

The gold doesn’t erase the fracture – it celebrates it.

Beauty is born – not in spite of the crack – but because of it.

This small blue plate – it’s no longer what it once was.

It’s better.

Not new, but reborn. Redefined.

___________________________________ 

For many years, I’ve aimed to hide my cracks. I concealed them because – honestly – I was ashamed of them.

For a long time, I thought I needed to get back to the person I used to be. But that person is gone.

I didn’t break and bounce back.

I fractured and changed.

But I realize now – we aren’t meant to go back to how we were.

We’re meant to become something new – not in spite of the damage - but because of it.

I’ve decided to stop trying to fix myself. Instead, I’m becoming myself.

I’m becoming someone who doesn’t hide their scars – but honors them and wears them with pride.

Perfection is not my goal – wholeness is.

The seams – the scars – they remind me that I’ve survived.

I’m not here to look untouched. I’m here to shine where I’ve been broken.

This week, I walked into a Kyoto studio to fix a broken plate.

I left with something imperfect, unfinished, and beautiful.

And in some quiet way – that’s my dream.

Not to be who I was – to become who I’ll be.

Holding.

Shining.