I hurried, my hip glanced the table. The vase fell.
I hurried, I spoke too soon. The person to whom I spoke was hurt by my caustic words.
I am an imperfect person. I am deeply flawed.
The only staff that keeps me standing is understanding that so is everyone else.
I take no joy in discovering their flaws, but I know I can improve my conduct.
In their weeping eyes I see the reflection that is me, the disappointment, the criticism, the judgment. Their sorrow.
And the possibility that if I wake in the morning, I can try again. To repair and apologize, to expand my view and extend my palm, to lift them so I may be lifted as well.
Like the broken vase. Even knowing the cracks in the porcelain will still show, and will deflate the value of the vase, and will ever be the flaw that makes the vase vulnerable to breaking again, still I can repair it. Or try.
In the scattered shards lies a promise to fix what is broken.
So, to that person injured by the burn of my careless words, I am truly sorry.
Sometimes it’s the only thought that lets me sleep at night. That, and prayers.
Just a thought 48
The Broken Pitcher, 1891, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, courtesy Wikimedia Commons