They sat in a little breakfast trio, my M&M's, on the rug at the foot of our bed. A tray was laid out before them with independently made french toast and jam, plus a brand new packet of icing sugar I wryly noted, and they were amusing themselves by listening to cassette tapes from my childhood, lips smeared powder white and berry-red. From the passage I suddenly heard the hair raising and unmistakable splinter of glass and rushed to them. A large, old painting that had belonged to my grandfather, had tipped in a sudden gust from the open window and had collapsed off its easel, showering the children with glass shards. No one was seriously hurt. Only one tiny shard in M1's foot and a bruise across her back where she had borne the impact of the frame. We rubbed arnica. Hugged. And I surveyed the mess and felt a kinship with the glass heap.
I sat down again at the computer and looked down to see M3 fall over with a cupful of cereal. The pieces of nutrigrain spun and flew across the floor. I sighed. Hugged. Surveyed the mess. Felt a familiar kinship with the tossed cereal. And so on the day went, edges of the saw of progress biting into the gritty moments with multiple time outs, grumbles and undone chores, tripping over toys, relentless whacking of a drum-beat on a pot and the fence palings with two of my wooden spoons; a dropped egg on the kitchen floor, vivid red and green iceblock drops on white beanbags despite me thinking my eyes said no and that common sense would prevail, and tears, sniffs and crossly folded arms of resentment. Stories, hugs, panadol and deep breaths while I tried to link the consuming scattered feeling to the clasp of reality.

And somewhere in that weird gap between going about the numb necessary, and the hollow of secret and faraway thoughts, I accidentally tipped. And out tumbled out creatures of flight from their heart-cage, door swinging open on the hinging memory of last night. Beside my bed there lay a wire and bead bracelet, made for me by M2 when she was away last week with friends. I had lain in sleep free stillness, feeling like I was hurling through space, eyes fixed on the little circle of wire and the way the lamplight caught with prisms, shone off each globe of love. As I looked at it, the last few months fell into unexpected clarity.

During the lilt and sparkle of summer, my string of mind-beads broke. As we played by the glittering shoreline, swam in the chips of paua-blue sea, built castles in gold and ebony sands, etched memories under tree leaf and sunset, the weave began to loosen. In gardens that were not ours, in houses that were full of strange noises and in the new normal of an old embrace, the thread that held the orbs of myself simply broke apart. Detached, almost idly, I watched the beads slowly hurl away from their neat line of orbit and get swallowed in black corners.

Later, on knees in the dust feeling about me with tentative hands for the pearls of my mind, I fought the temptation to lie down in the dim, cool hull of undemand and stay there for the rest of my life. I experimentally laid a head on boards of blankness and closed my eyes ignoring a thousand unwritten words that leaped and flapped against the skin of my eyelids and the surface of my bones. Cradling the few beads I had retrieved from the ground, I sat up tiredly and looked at the incomplete huddle of coloured balls in my palm. They did not make sense. I stared harder, as if somehow my gaze would electrify the few that were left into some semblance of order and value; re-string and present them, willing, accounted for and ready for some sort of purposeful action that made sense to the world, and to me. But they glinted balefully back at me from the half-light. Irregular blobs, some stippled, some tiny and round, some lumpish, unsymmetrical, each with a hollow eye. I raised them to the slant of light above my head and looked up to see the sun ignite each one like fire, turning their faintness to drops of insane brightness. But, and my shoulders are still slumped slightly with the truth of this, most of them are spread about. Lost. Incohesive and literally scattered about in the bottom of some unknown vessel. And I have no clue how to begin the process of re-stringing. The circlet that was, is not.

Fortunately, I know Someone. Someone eternally masterful in the art of restoring and creating.

Someone who heeds well the cries of those lost, those searching on their knees for spilt kernels of identity and purpose and those who are sitting in the quiet dark because they have become undone and they have simply no idea how to hold those loose baubles of their hearts in line.

Come to me all who are weary and heavy laden and I will give you rest.

He is near to the brokenhearted, saving the crushed in spirit.

He himself will restore, confirm, strengthen and establish you.

You will be kept in perfect peace.

My head rests on my knees, weary of the hunt for the missing pieces, tired of wondering how to keep everything together and stinging with the breaking of the thread as well as the loss of the completeness.

Tipping up my palm, the rainbows run off my hand and roll away back into the darkness.

I am undone. And at last, with some relief, can feel it.

Sj  – (January 20, 2010 at 7:49 PM)  

hey my precious lady.
i am thankful and glad that you always see God in daily life and that you are willing to allow His light to shine amidst the roughness. Praying and hoping for 'alone' time for you to process more and more.
Love u, appreciate you a lot.

Anonymous –   – (January 21, 2010 at 3:36 PM)  

beautifully written....speechless

Weza  – (January 21, 2010 at 5:08 PM)  

Have not been to your blog before, but glad I popped by today. This is truly beautiful.

Anonymous –   – (January 23, 2010 at 10:54 AM)  

good words

Lyns  – (January 23, 2010 at 9:25 PM)  

Beautiful words, beautiful photos x

Nishant  – (March 13, 2010 at 7:10 AM)  

Praying and hoping for 'alone' time for you to process more and more.
Love u, appreciate you a lot.
bookmarking demon

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