Mosaic – the word means permission to reclaim what is shattered. To make it beautiful or ugly. Just don’t ask it to be whole.
This is a remix-able world. We find the pieces we find – of ourselves, of each other – music, images, voices, and verses. We pick them up and re-make them – remembering them into new beginnings. A papered collage. A mashed-up melody. A misremembered recipe – fill in the blanks with pieces of yourself.
Show your messy mind early and often. So that in exchanging fragments for other fragments, a conversation can become its own song. I cannot sing with only my single note. My wisps of words. But I can hold out my hand anyway and make an offering– no matter how small and frail the shard may feel in my palm. No matter how faded its colors. Or strange its edges. Or sharp.
I can unclench my fist and let it touch light. Before audit and edit grind it into too fine a powder for telling. Raw material is holy. Excavation clears rubble, but I must remind myself again and again: do not discard a dusty rock without turning it over. Put it next to someone else’s shard – dug up from their sediment. How else will you know if your dry rubble is in fact a fossil, or tiny ceramic tile – ancient and blue – searching for its place among all the other broken pieces?
Wholeness emerges only at a distance and of its own volition. Perhaps that’s why I crave the long view. The prospect of light and shadow moving across a living landscape. Give the piece its place – then step back. Let it breathe and hum with all the others. Walk as long as you can in the other direction, without looking back.