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| Japanese Kintsugi (gold repair) |
Kate Davies had a post this spring that discussed why mending is important, not only for creative practice, but for the health of ourselves, our world, our souls. The post is taken from her 2019 book Wheesht, and I keep thinking about mending as a larger concept.
(Around the same time, I had a discussion with a friend about where to start with a novel, and I said to start with a big question or theme you want to work through. I've been a bit stuck about where to go with my next book, but after that question, and reading Kate's post: Physician heal thyself. I've been thinking about some big questions since then).
I think it is interesting to consider what resonates culturally, as it speaks to what our deep anxieties and unmet needs are. From a quick perusal of some popular fantasy fiction (and by popular, I mean fanatic reader followings, with millions of books sold), I notice a few things. First is the desire for intimacy, but not just with a romantic partner (although that is present), but the desire for intimacy in a family setting. To be truly known by your family, and if not by your family of origin, then the family you construct in its absence or dysfunction.
Related to the first, the second is the desire for unconditional acceptance by one's romantic partner and family. In this unconditional acceptance is the idea that you stick through the hard times, through thick and thin. I do find there is an element of fantasy there, as the thick and thin times in these novels tend to come from external pressures rather than from self-generated interpersonal conflict, but that's something to tease apart another time.
Finally, there is a deep desire for an enchanted world, and a fight to be had against the forces of evil. That is to say, a world that exists on more planes than we can perceive or rationally prove, and that has a spiritual dimension to it that is real and life-giving. In fantasy novels, the enchantment often comes from within the characters themselves in the form of magical abilities, but there is also a kind of magic in the air of these stories that exists as atmosphere.
I'm also increasingly bothered by stories where the resolution of the conflict is found by the protagonist "following their bliss," even if it means blowing apart a marriage or family, or leaving a rooted community. I fail to see how that can ultimately feed the soul and make for lasting flourishing. A plant without good roots will wither and die, even if it looks good initially. Plants thrive around other plants. Similarly, a plant that is in the process of rooting itself in the soil will sometimes look a little peaky and sad, but if you give it some time and care, it will often flourish dramatically.
The meaning in the metaphor is that living rooted in community is messy and difficult. Relationships are never clean and smooth, and there are always people in life that you'd rather not have to deal with. But I also think those people are there to rub against my thorny bits, to smooth over my ragged edges. Does it feel good? Absolutely not. Is it good for my soul? Absolutely yes.
The ultimate goal is God Himself. To be so consumed by that relationship that it is validated and real--a consummation. To ascend the mountain and find ourselves at the foot of the Cross, on top of Golgotha, the place of Adam's skull. Christ voluntarily eats the apple of death in order to pour life into Adam's skull and so reveals the purpose of death: to transform that death back into the glory of Eden in self-sacrifice. He asks us to die on purpose, to die to ourselves, to our will, to provide the seeds for the flourishing of the world.
This cracking open of ourselves in service of mending and flourishing is bound to hurt, bound be discouraging at times, even oppressive. But the Comforter has come and if we can keep the summit in sight, instead of trying to eat the apple again and again, perhaps we can make a little more progress on our journey.





























