Mosaic

Guest Contributor: @2cent_charlie

“…at the most basic definition, a mosaic is a picture or other design constructed from smaller pieces.”

— The Joy of Shards

My friend @2cent_charlie wrote this reflective piece on grief during one of our Summer Writing Institutes with Katherine Bomer where teachers step into the role of a writer as a way to add depth, experience, and process-oriented teaching points to take back to their students.  So grateful for her vulnerability--this is how it works though, isn't it? A brave person takes the chance to put into words the thoughts and feelings of which so many of us can relate.  This is human connection. This leads to healing and lessons the feelings of isolation and loneliness.  Here is an invitation to reflect and see in what ways this particular piece moves you.  

The sunlight shines through my window. Specks of dust flickering in its rays. A moment of stillness--peace envelopes me. I can hear my breathing, slow, steady-- calm. My heart beats in my chest a blissful, yet guarded cadence. Blinking slowly, I bounce between the darkness and the light. A dream state and then to reality. The time it takes to travel between the two shortens, with the dream state slowly diminishing. The more consciousness I gain, the less peaceful I begin to feel. A sadness flushes over me. I am awake, and yet I cannot--will not rise. Instead, I curl into a ball. My chin to my chest. My knees pulled to my stomach. My eyes clinching tighter and tighter, struggling to hold on to the peace that I’d felt…just moments ago.

…to no avail…

I roll to my back and sprawl, as I succumb to the realization that, what was-is no longer and what is-won’t always remain. I peel myself from the sheet. I shuffle my feet to the bathroom. I avoid the eyes searching to understand the shell of a person looking back in the mirror. I brush my teeth. I catch a glimpse of her--her disapproving glare. I avoid her. I don’t know her. I feel as though I disappoint her.

I envision a world that exists just beyond that mirrored glass. A world much different from this one. Images-- Memories of my life begin to appear on the mirrored wall, in vividly-- rich colors. Each memory taking the appearance of a tile.  Perfect in proportion. Bright colors. Unique combinations of patterns--textures. The images blurred--blended--fused. Each melting into the next, in a beautiful, yet predictable way.

A sunken green, rising to brown, branching out to green, spreading to a pretty blue that encircles a radiant orange. The feeling of a warm summer day overwhelms me.

Time slows…as one tile after another appear with purpose. Each elicits strong feelings and vivid emotions. Many of them of joy and glee, others more somber.

·       Various shades of pink and purple - my first time on my bike, without training wheels. Handle bar tassels flapping in the wind. A masculine voice, whispers in my ear, “you can do this!”

·       Vivid reds – bobbing for apples. Poorly applied lipstick and nail polish. Daddy screaming, “Take it off! NOW!”

·       Chocolate and Vanilla swirls- Saturday afternoon ice cream with daddy

·       Organic grains of Wood – drum sticks clanking and pounding on his drum set. My feet dancing to his musical rhythms

·       Deep Blacks with silver waves - college cap and gowns. Two degrees—daddy smiles.

·       Soft whites and ivory and creams – My wedding day. Lace. Dancing with my father. A spotlight. Just he and I. Me and my daddy.

·       Confetti – New Year’s Eve. Family traditions. My father with his bride. My husband and I. Dancing the night away.

A beautiful work of art being generated right before my eyes. I am at peace.

There’s a sudden shift in the colors. No longer bright. More pale, almost colorless. The emotions summoned by the tiles are no longer joyful or full of glee.

I’m afraid. I begin to fear what the next tile may bring…

·       Light gray – daddy’s favorite pajamas

·       Pale blue – a casket. Eternity. Tears.

·       Brown polka dots of varying sizes- dirt. Casket lowered and disappears.

I ache. It’s harder to breathe. I want to escape. I feel weak.

Suddenly, this beautiful work that blossomed before my eyes…I no longer want to see. I close my eyes. I hear a loud popping sound. It reminds me of a pebble hitting the windshield of a car driving on the highway. I open my eyes. There’s an indentation in the center of the piece. It grows wider. A starburst. A crack that spiders out—spreading. One after another. Opposing directions. Wider. Farther.

The center falls, crashing to the ground. Shattering into smaller pieces. There’s a void in the center of this once beautiful—collective image. My daddy—is gone.

Without hesitation, as if it’s been waiting its entire existence to scatter, the remainder of my beautiful picture falls. My world--Shattered—into what could easily be a billion pieces. While the world continues to move around me.

I stand—in silence. I sob. I cry.

I scream out…”why?” “What am I supposed to do now?”

I want to cease.

I scoop a handful of pieces.

I weep.

I prepare to trash the remnants of my life.

I pause.

A masculine voice, whispers in my ear, “You can do this!”

I decide to pick up the broken shards of myself. I take a single piece. The first— small, irregularly shaped, seemingly insignificant piece, and place it in the center of the blank space where something so beautiful once existed… I cry. I’m afraid. Though, I pretend to be brave.

The first piece--A small speck in a vast world. Its significance feels stronger than anything that I’d ever felt. Gently—reluctantly, I place another piece and another. I have no plan. I have no direction. I do not place by color, but instead with a feeling of “this feels right”. This piece belongs here.

I can feel that each shard has a purpose. Each with its own role to play. Each contributing to the next--and complimentary to the piece that came before it.

Again, I am beginning to see a beautiful work blossoming before my eyes. The same pieces of me—but a NEW work of art. Smaller pieces—that when clustered together, produce the most wonderful collection of imperfect beauty.

I return to my reality.

Still saddened at the loss of my father, I succumb to the realization that while I am different than before, I can be a beautiful work of art--A work in progress.

I finally lock eyes with the girl who gazes at me from the mirror. I slowly begin to recognize her. She’s becoming more and more familiar. I remember her…

With tears in my eyes. I smile--because I now know that with one step—one moment—one day—one broken piece at a time…I grow into a beautiful mosaic.

I’ve decided to call her—ME.