Beauty of the Broken
Many months ago, my son was playing in my room (unbeknownst to me).
Sometime during his play, he knocked these tiny hands off of my meditation altar, and broke them.
They still maintain a treasured place on my altar.
They remind me of the beauty I felt in them when I purchased them
- open hands, receiving.
They remind me of the beauty of my child's play
- and how he won't always be this way.
They remind me of my anger when I discovered it
- and how I want to not react that way again over a
They remind me of perfection and imperfection, emotion and stillness, what was...and most importantly,
To be with this - it is why I practice.