Fixing Stuff with other Broken Stuff

I’ve always been fascinated by mosaics. The idea of creating patterns or pictures using cut pieces of tile and glass which are then grouted together appeals to the part of me which loves fixing and repurposing broken stuff. Patchwork quilts hold a similar fascination for me as my mother used to cut and piece together little squares of fabric cut from the leftovers of garments she had made for herself and my sister and I. 

In my early twenties I took a few patchwork courses learning the technicalities of piecing together accurately measured and pre-cut fabrics which were bought for the specific purpose of being coordinated, cut and then sewn back together to adorn the beds of my new home. I was so proud of this newly acquired skill. My mother was rather puzzled by the process of buying fabric for the purpose of cutting it up into little pieces and tried in vain to explain to me that this seemed to defeat the object of using leftovers that would otherwise become discarded and wasted. 

There’s a time in ones life when, if you’ve experienced brokenness and imperfection, you go to great pains to blot the memory of these from your life. You want to start over and everything has to be fresh and new, as if this will bring healing. You don’t want to acknowledge the broken pieces. They’re ugly. They’re embarrassing and they just don’t seem to get fixed no matter how hard you try so what makes the most sense is to throw it away and start fresh: buy new; recycling means the stains or the chips will still be there as a reminder that once this was broken and stopped working. 

But what if it didn’t matter? What if the distortions caused by the broken glass and tiles became prisms of light that bounced off walls and other surfaces spreading their happy dancing reflected light into infinity. 

I’ve been sewing together a patchwork quilt for a special loved one who’s been on  her own difficult journey. My hope was that she would in some way be able to recognise that there is beauty even in brokenness for even beautiful flowers have to die in order to seed and continue existing. 

In the mountains where I was born and those in whose shadow I hope to abide until I finally close my eyes, I often remind myself, when I see burnt remnants of bushfires which sweep through periodically that this too is important for growth. Only the intense heat of a raging fire enables certain indigenous flora to release their seed pods and after the first rains, the new green shoots pop up even between rocks bringing renewal and new life to the traumatised landscape. Here fynbos of myriads of colours and shades co-exist across the krantzes and koppies from mountain top to mountain top never competing with one another for radiance and beauty. From the majestic King Proteas to the tiniest of the Ericas, each humble bloom has it’s part to play in the great tapestry of this resplendent landscape.

So back to cutting up scraps from leftovers and spreading them across my bed, remembering a lifetime ago when my mother would sew, rather imperfectly as it seemed to me in my youth, the patches of fabric left over from our little frocks and realising with the hindsight born out of the scraps of that lifetime that this was as good as it would get. Ah, could I gather all those scraps together and sew them back together again. Could I catch those fractured splinters of light, those moments of condensed love like the snatched moments of delight when we would suck the sweet condensed milk from one tin and listen to stories of a time long gone when children were so naughty they would make a hole in the tin and suck the sweetness out and then stick the label back with spit hoping their mother wouldn’t feel the lighter weight of the tin. 

Could we patch the brokenness with the  patches of imperfect love we have to give and the little bits we could salvage along the way? Would it be enough and did it matter that we didn’t get it all right all the time or did it not matter at all?