• Marya Kazmi

Shattered


Illusions exist because we believe in the reality we see within the fragments of light that shine through the cracks. It makes us feel reality exists in a figment of our imagination. Until the illusion shatters and we see the pieces fragmented and realize it was never a full picture to begin.


I realized this as I was cleaning up the shattered pieces of the new French press I bought myself. It was a fancy treat to have real brewed coffee in the morning. I had traded in the automaticity and ease of a quick button that served me a mediocre cup of processed joe, to the slow and methodical simplicity of a cup of coffee made from grounds and careful timing. Then yesterday as I moved around in my state of perpetual motion and often haste, it dropped to the ground and shattered to pieces. My first thought was now what? How will I have coffee in the morning when the one thing I counted on to provide me coffee no longer exists except for fragmented parts strewn on my kitchen floor. And then, the symbolism and emotions of the week hit me.


As I sank to the floor the overwhelming burden of cleaning up this mess in order to have a safe place to walk in my kitchen, took over. Life has been shattering in front of me and I have been cleaning up the messes for too long. I was so tired of solving the problems alone. I was tired of having to face every tough point in life on my own. Once again I will have to look at the problem staring me in the face, and pick up the pieces alone to find some semblance of peace. I was tired and my body has been exhausted from the energy I exert to keep healing myself over and over again. I wanted someone to sit with me beside the strewn pieces of glass that my life feels like it’s become and hold on to me to protect me from the shards and jagged edges. I wanted a friend who was my partner. I wanted to have someone's arms to sink into and allow him to plan how he would make my life easier and tackle the problem with me. I just didn’t want to be alone in that moment.


No one came. No one ever does. So I methodically cleaned up the pieces. The big pieces are always easy to spot. In life those are those easily identifiable problems and challenges we know how to pick up and throw away. But the frustration is when you have to clean up the smaller and sometimes miniscule shards where as much as you may try to clear it out, inevitably you will one day step on the floor and your naked foot walking to get breakfast on a beautiful Sunday morning is stabbed in the flesh by an unexpected speck of glass. In life when we clean up our problems and heal ourselves the big pieces are easy to spot. But the unexpected pieces that hurt you with vicious stabs are the ones you can’t prepare for. So as I sat there overwhelmed by the responsibility to clean every last piece of glass off my kitchen floor. But the pain of being stabbed again is something my heart and body no longer want to become accustomed to.


The glass shattered last night, just as an illusion did in my life. The French Press didn’t make it past the destruction. And even though I may crave the partner and friend as support, the one thing I know about myself is that I have walked into and out of the glass with wounds but always standing tall.

I have the strength and faith to build empires out of the rubble every time.


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