I broke my arm when I was twenty-one years old. I was playing flag football on a muddy field when I fell awkwardly and snapped my right humerus (upper-arm bone) at its midpoint. It was the most intense physical pain I’d ever experienced.
The bone healed in time, but now—over twenty-five years later—I have a bump in the middle of my right upper arm that always reminds me of that day and that injury.
We break and we heal, but we carry the scars with us for the rest of our lives.
We are like kintsukuroi (or kintsugi), the Japanese art of repairing pottery with gold lacquer. Like kintsukuroi, we are both broken and whole, and our cracks are both visible and beautiful.
For they are the record of our lives.