It was a 1940s house on a tiny little street right next to a big loud highway in the third ward of Houston’s historic district. We had a possum invasion, gaping holes in the roof and ceiling, electrical issues and on more than one occasion, gunshots could be heard three doors down. One of the roaring sounds of our next door highway were the emergency sirens passing by every seven minutes. Our oldest child made the sound of a siren before speaking words. We bought this first home for a few pennies and it was a beautiful mess.
Our neighbors were gold. We met our best friends down the street. We could walk to Spanish Village, our go-to Mexican restaurant and we were nine minutes from the Astros. Our renovations paid off allowing us to make a few more pennies. We still send a Christmas card to the sweet woman who bought that home and when in town, we drive by to see how big the tree we planted in the front yard in 2000 is. It was a beautiful time.
I can still hear Ms. Audrey’s voice in all her booming radiance and majesty. She welcomed us onto Arbor Street with open arms. It would have been completely understandable if she had not wanted us as neighbors. We were minorities in her down town historical neighborhood. But Ms. Audrey loved homes and design and us as it turned out and she saw our vision for beauty.
We had our first Ho Ho Ho Happy Hour the first December we lived there. There were no more possums, the roof and ceilings had been repaired and I had figured out how to cook by scattering appliances throughout the house so I didn’t blow a fuse. We hired a sweet young girl to play our piano and hosted new and old friends from all over the city. Our 90-year-old neighbor showed up in her gorgeous bright green blazer honoring us with her buoyant Christmas cheer and a childhood friend brought her two-year-old daughter who made a secret place under our long table of meats and treats. It was a glorious mix of so many different people from so many different walks of life. It was truly beautiful.
Our first house on Arbor taught us much about making beauty, living with messes and how terrifying a teenage possum can be when he is staring up at you in your kitchen with his beady little eyes at 12:00 in the morning.
This past August, I stood in front of the broken pieces I had brought to my dear friend’s mosaic studio. These past ten years I have been collecting fragments of special items that break: my mom’s favorite Waterford wine glass, her best cake platter, the ceramic spoon holder Lindsay gave me, the plate one of my daughters painted … every single time something special breaks, a little part of my heart breaks, too. Then comes the grief and the wish to make things right. I have a little ritual of keeping the pieces together in one little spot hoping for repair. I have tried to glue things together. There are some that will not be glued. Some, I have managed to glue, then they break again. Others seem to be irredeemably broken. And that stays somewhere deep inside. Broken forever feels too hard to bear.
So I have been collecting these broken pieces hoping one day to make something beautiful with them.
I had planned this mosaic making event and had all of my special people there beside me. Each of them stood at their space busily working with their beautiful broken pieces, designing and creating their individual, signature mosaics. I kept staring at my pieces. I loved them so much. They reminded me of so much love, so much loss, so much life. I was stuck. I started walking around the studio, soaking in all of the masterpieces, broken dishes and specific tools. This place, these artists, my dear friend, all this beauty. I was enthralled. Eventually I landed in front of a jar filled with little beads with letters. Letters make words. I needed words. Maybe a message would help. Maybe I could make this beautiful.
Sometimes the mess, the brokenness, the dilemmas, the overwhelm bring me to a screeching halt. I can be so surprised by the drain, the empty, the hole, the cavern that echoes with nothingness. I get lost in the confusion, the complications, the twisted, careening, colliding needs and aches and pains. I don’t want to crawl in bed and pull the covers over my head but I would really like to crawl in bed and pull the covers over my head. What is it about covers and closets and crawling? They seem so very desperate.
But sometimes, like my special signature mosaic, something beautiful is made from the broken pieces and it is enough. I keep looking at it for what it represents and for what it means to me.
Sometimes there is a holy day of meandering, meaningful conversation about life in the 1940s and music that matters and a career that spans almost fifty years with a beloved grandparent. We magically grasp that this version of life and love with this dear soul is some of the best life has to offer us. And we keep remembering with fondness such a time because through the brokenness we can savor this in ways we did not imagine possible.
And other times, it is enough to let the broken pieces lie. There is beauty in the brokenness. The pieces can stand on their own. I don’t have to make anything out of them. And that also feels so very beautiful.
So, maybe I start with some letters. Just a few words. A little message for my heart: This. Could. Be. Beautiful. Like Arbor Street, a teardown home becomes a ho ho ho happy place where all the neighbors and friends are welcome. Connections repair some holes. Vulnerability mends a rift. Sacred moments soften irredeemable losses. And the possibility feels slightly more accessible that maybe, just maybe we could make this life beautiful.
