The bowl fell from my hands. 

I had just taken it from the shelf, intrigued by the design of the pottery bowl, and the colors that had been blended into it. In horror-induced slow motion, I watched as it slid along my fingertips and into the open air. There was nothing I could do, my mind screamed for me to catch it, but my body couldn’t respond fast enough. In a moment it was over. The bowl that had been so striking now laid in tattered shards on the floor. 

It was one-of-a-kind, I knew that. That’s why I was here in the first place, because I knew the owner made all his own pieces. So, as the aged potter came into view, I immediately apologized and offered to pay for it. 

The calm and serenity in his face were what surprised me the most. There was no anger, not even a real sense of hurt, just acceptance at what had happened. The anxiety screaming in my brain didn’t know how to handle this, it was so alien to what I expected, that I simply stood there, dumb-struck, as he approached. 

He looked down at the broken bowl, and then back at me and said, “Why would you pay for a broken bowl?” 

“It was my fault,” I said. “It slipped out of my hand. Seriously, what do I owe you?” 

He bent down and carefully collected the pieces, stacking them within the largest fragment and stood back up holding the ruined bowl. “If you wish to pay for the bowl, then I will accept your offer. But my price is not in money, but time. You will pay me with four hours of time as the price of the bowl.” 

Anxiety was washed away by curiosity, I asked, “What do you mean?” 

“Come back to my shop this Saturday at 8am. You will help me with a project for four hours. That is the price I request.” 

It was an unusual request, and again this old man had surprised me. Still, I had offered to pay him, and I felt a responsibility for breaking the bowl, so in kind of odd bemusement, I agreed. 

With a sharp nod of his head he said, “Good. I will see you then.” Turning, and without another word, he walked away. 

Saturday came, and as promised I arrived at his shop just before 8am. The lights were on, but the store itself was closed, so I knocked on the door. After a few minutes, he arrived to let me in. There was a strange expression on his face, a kind of surprised acknowledgement, and I realized he hadn’t been sure I would come. 

“Good,” he said with a smile, “you are here. Come along to the back.” 

I followed him through the shop, the shelves lined with his works of art. As we passed through a curtain to the back of the shop, behind a work desk there was one more shelf full of pottery. But all of these had veins of silver or gold running along them. He led me to that desk, in front of the veined pottery and said, “Have you ever heard of the art of kintsugi?” 

“The Japanese believe there is unique value in broken things. Kintsugi is an art form of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with gold or silver.” Waving a hand toward the shelf of veined pottery, he says, “These are all pieces that I have broken. Repaired they are more beautiful and unique than when I first made them. I keep these as reminders that as people we are all broken, but it is how we are remade from it that makes us unique. We are rebuilt to be just as strong, but with a beauty that didn’t exist before.” 

Taking me by the shoulder he turned me toward the desk. There, laid out on a cloth, the pieces positioned to align with where they should go, are the remains of the bowl that had broken. Along with that was a piece of sandpaper, a brush, a small bowl, and a bottle of golden lacquer. 

He sat me in the chair in front of this puzzle of pottery and with care and patience instructed me how to rebuild the bowl. “Each piece is vital to the whole, so each piece is to be cared for with that intent.” Picking up a fragment that looked particularly jagged he said, “Some pieces, once broken, will no longer fit what is to become, so it must be shaped.” Picking up the sandpaper, he began to smooth the jagged edge. “With gentle pressure and time, it is readied to again be part of the whole.” 

He put down the sandpaper, poured a bit of the golden liquid into the bowl, and dipped the brush in it. “We then take the best portion of what was old,” he lifted the brush and with delicate care added the lacquer to the smoothed piece, “bonding it with what is new,” he moved the piece against its mate and held it while it set, “and what was once broken, is made whole.” 

Removing his hands, the newly merged piece, an allusion of what it was to become, gently shifted back onto the cloth. The thin ribbon of gold showing in striking relief against the other colors in the pottery. 

Under his tutelage for the next four hours, I smoothed each piece, and with lines of gold, rebuilt the bowl. 

When it was over, I stretched in the chair, bunched muscles sore and protesting from the delicate movements that I was unaccustomed too. What sat before me was the bowl with the intriguing shape and colors I had picked up days before. But now, along with those colors was a tracery of tragic beauty, thin lines of gold showing the scars of what had befallen it; and it was beautiful. 

The potter congratulated me for my work, and as I stood up to leave, he placed the bowl in my hands. Shocked, looking at the gold traceries, I stammered, “I can’t take this. It’s even more valuable now.” 

Smiling he said, “You paid the price. I never intended for you to pay for a broken bowl. You did the work, and because of that it is restored.” 

I walked away from that shop that Saturday afternoon with my new bowl, a sense of pride in the work I had put in to restore it, and most importantly a new way of thinking. 

We are all broken by our circumstances, and we can never return to how we were before. The pieces just don’t fit right anymore. But with time and patience, we are reformed. The semblance of what we were is remade into what we have become, unique and beautiful in a way we could never have imagined.