As fate would have it - I have returned to summer camp in Connecticut for the third summer in a row.
Amid stifling heatwaves, ever-growing fatigue, lousy food, and an overwhelming sense of anticipation, I have found solace in spending time with close friends, making jewelry, planning my next adventure, and batiking a wall-hanging (my left and right hand are green and blue, respectively).
And as always, I find solace at camp in the little moments that are somehow not so little.
There have been a few.
Here is one of them.
About a month ago, I was on the main porch one night; the kids had gone to bed, the mosquitoes had come out, and the air felt slightly cool and damp.
I saw a friend sitting on the edge of the porch, in the shadows, looking a little sad.
So I walked up to her and asked her how she was doing.
She replied that everything was okay, but I remained unconvinced.
So I asked again.
Her response was roughly as follows -
"In my country, we have a saying:
When you drop a plate, it breaks.
You can pick up all of the pieces.
You can glue it back together meticulously.
But it will never be the same again.
The cracks will always be there."
We continued talking and she further explained the situation that she was applying this metaphor to. Without really knowing whether what I was saying had any semblance of truth to it, I reassured her that I was sure that everything would be fine.
It may seem an anti-climactic anecdote, I just think there is a kind of melancholy truth to the plate metaphor.
Despite the somewhat gloomy undertones of the saying, one must think about what the cracks mean. The plate may be marred, but do the cracks make it more interesting? Do they give the plate a story?
Maybe I'm being too optimistic.
The cracks would make the plate more fragile; if it were to be dropped again, it would certainly break even more easily than the first time.
Maybe I'm thinking too much about the durability of plates.
Regardless, it was high time for a check-in. I'll leave the plate analysis up to you.
Big things coming, folks.
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