Mosaic is Vogue

 

 Broken pieces are held together by mortar and clay. Catching the sun's light, they shine and display their spectrum of colors. Their beauty is found in the eye of the beholder and to some they prove beautiful; to others they prove broken. Small pieces and larger ones arranged in disarray and hectic proportions.

  She is made up of mosaic pieces that have collected on her since the day she was born. Through unforeseen circumstances and unavoidable collisions, she has become broken.  She did not shatter like a rare vase when it is dropped onto unforgiving concrete; she broke one piece at a time like melting ice off of a glacier. She did not realize the depths of the damage until one piece slid off of her life, exposing her to the cold elements of heart break- true and dark heart break. 

 With broken pieces lying around her- jagged and miscellaneous, she picked them up one by one and held onto them through bruised and weak hands.  What was she to do with such a collection?  She carried pieces of herself around, but they were just that-pieces.  She had forgotten what it was like to be whole, to be loved, to be herself.  And with only pieces to look to for reference, she could only yearn to remember the full picture.  So, day and night and every hour between, she grieved over what had been broken and stripped from her. 

 
Through her scratched and blurry lens, she could only see that others had so much more than she had.  Other women were beautiful, never lacking, and most importantly whole.  She cowered in their shadows they cast over her.  She closed her eyes to their perfection and yearned to be whole again just as they were.  As she walked passed each embodiment of perfection, the sound of broken pieces of herself resounded in her ears. With each rhythmic step she heard:

You.

Are.

Not.

Whole.

You.

Lack.

It.

All.

You.

Are.

Not.

Loved.

You.

Are.

Still.

Broken.

   Her heart had hardened to the words that she told herself, they had become every bit as true as the color of her own eyes.  As she lay in her bed at night; the pieces of her past jabbed at her side and prevented her to dream of her future. With each toss and turn, she agonized over where she had been and where she longed to be. With each breath in and out, she tried to replace what was broken for the exchange of something whole. What replaced her exhalation of bad thoughts, though were the same bad thoughts-she breathed recycled air.

  One day, a larger piece broke and with it her spirit resigned.  She picked up the broken piece and with new determination tried to make something out of it.  She arranged the pieces of past and present into a pattern with the hope that it would work out.  Beneath the potter's hand, her heart was softened and a love stronger than mortar or clay replaced her weakened foundation.  Every piece of hurt and every jagged painful memory coincided with one another and unified in the new creation. 

 
As she walked by those that had embodied perfection to her previously, she realized the small broken pieces that were being carried in their arms. The realization that everyone is broken had never occurred to her. She was able to see that brokenness is only what one allows it to be. Broken pieces can be reminders of how something used to be, or they can be small pieces to a new and bigger picture. She realized that carrying brokenness and wearing it were two different things. Wearing her brokenness allowed her to empty her hands and to help others.

  Brokenness isn't a state of beauty, but one of weakness.

  It's weak to strive for beauty in any other way than by dealing with brokenness.

   Be a mosaic beauty.