It simply slipped out of my hand and gravity took care of the rest. The dish was in what seemed like a million tiny pieces on the cement. Granted the dish was going into the recycling bin because it was chipped and could not be safely used, but I did not expect to be picking up the pieces of glass that had bounced everywhere, as if they had been thrown about by a giant wind machine. My annoyance was furthered by the lingering, seemingly ever-present headache that my body is clinging to as the result of having been under the weather for the past two days. Bending over, head below my waist (what's left of it!) kept the blood rushing to my skull and, therefore, feeding the burgeoning blood supply that reminded me of every beat of my heart.
I was not a happy camper.
The physical act of picking up the pieces became symbolic for those times in life when we pick up our own pieces or pick up the pieces for others.
Have you ever helped someone else pick up the pieces of their life?
I have. For some, it is easier than others to pick up the shattered vestiges of their life. I do not know if it depends upon a person's support system, or lack thereof, but for the lucky few, the process runs cleanly and quickly. For others, putting together a broken life takes time, lots of tears, starts and stops, ups and downs and may require large amounts of support from family and friends. Frequently, the person picking up the life-pieces may feel like their head is below the waist and producing a constant throbbing headache.
Putting a life back together is not an easy task, nor a rapid one. Too bad it can't be done with just a broom, a dust pan and a waste basket.
Ancora imparo
