Nobody ever wishes to grow up to become a broken adult, nobody ever aspires to one day become a madman. The other can say it so carelessly, I mean the brokenness of another, say it with so much contempt, the shabbiness of another’s life like a disease that they hope to never catch. Who can blame them we are the social media generation; the generation with the filter, the Photoshop, we are the magazines on display generation, and the 101 ways to make him fall in love, we live in a world where perfect is a living requirement. We see the social media lie, the corporate mother who does handstands after hours, baby on the back, perfect dinner by six and house straight out of a magazine spread and we mourn the death of ordinary life. Then it shocks me how this Facebook, Instagram and pin interest presentations of a life reminds me so much of my mother’s display cabinets.
My mother’s house was display cabinets, neat clean house and everything in its place type of residence. The cabinets housed her most precious china, her beautiful tea cups and drinking glasses that were not for everyday use. We lived hard to make the house look unlived in and uninhabited, so many shelves to display things. I was raised to love and adore perfection, my childhood memories are filled with crisp clean laundry hanging in a pattern on the line to dry and beautiful traditional broom marks that were concise and perfect and always had to be made at five in the morning just before sunrise.
I do not remember how I grew up to hate display cabinets, what drove me to this insane obsession with imperfection. My house has no display cabinets, there is in fact nothing to display and everything is so shabby, so used and so lived in. No important persons ever visit this shabby place; sometimes things are broken, sometimes things do not work and sometimes the house is dirty. It is a people live here type of house and I do not take extra care to make it look unlived in.
For years broken things haunted me but I have grown such love for the out of order things of life. My life just like my house is such a mess there is nothing of beauty to display here, everything is so shabby, so used and so lived in. There is no china, or beautiful glasses for visitors, I do not keep my life so clean so as to impress important friends who are too important to share with me my imperfections, my every day, my brokenness and my shabby existence. My everyday friends are shabby too; they have shabby lives and love my unclean and broken one. Mine is a lived in life filled with scars, failures and so many storms of fate to mention.
I have grown to appreciate that nothing whole, nothing perfect has ever birthed anything, a woman says my water has just broken birth is nearby. And I suddenly remember the Josh Groban lyrics: “broken clouds give rain, broken soil grows grain, broken bread feeds men for just one more day, broken storms yields light, break of day heals light… broken chains sets free…” I agree with Groban a hundred percent it is true that God loves broken things…
So I have abandoned my quest for perfection, I have realized that if I constantly chase after the Photoshoped , the beautiful glasses on display I might miss out on a whole lot of things. I have learnt that scars and torn seams, cracks and mask-less naked fragility have so much more interesting stories to tell. My tribe are those sensitive spirits who love honest beautiful, un-fragranced and unmasked conversation. I cannot and in fact will not reject and throw away so much possibility and I believe that God loves me broken for I am not what is perfect, I am only what is possible.
PS. This is the first of my new post series Uhuru Thursdays for my more reflective writing as I move the writings form choosedays to Thursdays. Nothing major just a bit of house cleaning, lets move forward together its “freedom (Uhuru) time now.”
As we soldier onwards to Uhuru, love and light,
@ Afrika Bohemian