Behold

“Humanity’s march to the present is akin to walking up a dune, two steps forward, one step back.”

        

So many things have been lost to history only later to be reborn. Humanity’s march to the present is akin to walking up a dune, two steps forward, one step back.

Legend has it that an ancient Chinese Emperor had a favorite vase which was broken by a careless handmaiden. His fury was chronicled by numerous headless corpses. But even death could not satisfy his lust to restore his object of desire. Filled with the arrogance of youth, the emperor sent word far and wide for an artisan of sufficient mastery as to make the vase new again.

Tradesmen and dignitaries traveling the eastern world spread the emperor’s challenge: ‘If you can make the broken vase new, then you need only ask, and it will be given.’ Yet along with this challenge came an admonishment: If you fail in this challenge, then the emperor will mount your hands in the space of the broken vase.   

The lure of fame and the vision of riches drew many august and distinguished artisans to see the broken vase. Yet one by one these masters left shaking their heads and staring at their hands, saying, “It cannot be done. Once broken, a vase’s beauty can never be regained.”

As the seasons pass, time threatens to sweep away the vase’s fractured beauty. Yet it lingers. Its purity was a richness which fills everyone’s soul even as it lay in ruins.

Then, one night, a weary potter, from faraway Japan, set eyes upon the broken vase. So intrigued by what he saw, he solemnly knelt before the broken shards and meditated.

And there he remained, like a statuesque idol, unmoving under the moonlight. For a fortnight, the frail artisan fasted, pondering the dilemma.

Initially, all he saw was beauty shattered, separate and alone. Each of his attempts to visualize the vase whole causes his soul to be drenched in a sadness of separation.

Perfection taunts the humble artisan as he hangs on the cross of despair. With the passing of each night, the phantom of delirium eats away at the bonds of mortal thought. Under its sway, he experiences a brilliant seedling sprouting from his sadness.

Suddenly there manifest a beauty born from imperfection. The allure you’ll witness in the haphazard magnificence of nature.

In that moment, cloaked in the fractured rays from the half-moon, the rickety artisan rises, turns to the guards, and asks for permission to speak to the emperor.

At dawn, the emperor deigns to grant the old potter an audience. The elder man, weaken from his fast, shuffles into the royal audience room with its imposing dragon throne. There he prostrates his old bones, appearing like a pile of rags, and waits.

With the arrogance of unearned achievement, the young emperor takes his seat. His voice thunders like a crashing wave, “What makes you think you can make this vase as beautiful as the day it was pulled from the maker’s fire?” 

The humble craftsman, daring only to gaze upon the august emperor’s feet, replied. “Mighty one, no one can make it new again. My promise, bound by the bond of these hands, is to make it better than it was.”

The emperor let out a hearty laugh. “Better you say. It cannot be. Perfection is perfection.”

The poor potter laid in silence until the emperor says, “Speak man, speak or I’ll cut out your tongue and your hands.”

“Oh, mighty one, I sat with the vase for half the cycle of the moon and under its illumination, the vase’s true essence was revealed.” He gulps and glances at his hands before continuing, “I can mend the vase.”

The emperor smiles and thinks, Soon I’ll have a new trophy to display, the hands of this fool. He turns to his guard, “Show this man to the royal kilns. Made sure he has whatever he needs.” Then turning back to the ceramicist, “You have until the next full moon.”  

Once alone, the old artisan picks up each shard. He studies them with the reverence reserved for one’s ancestor. After checking them from every angle, he places them down on the table. Once every piece is in place, he studies each fissure separating each shard. Hour after hour, his mind focuses on the pieces. After the span of three days, the pieces move in his mind. The fissures come alive, moving like roots, searching for nourishment. Only then does he see what hides in the shards and begin his work.

Upon the rise of the full moon, the emperor summons the ceramist.

The old man shuffles into the throne room and prostrates himself before the emperor.

The emperor bellows, “Old man, I see your hands are empty, and that is how they will hang on my wall. Do you have anything to say before my guard cuts them off?”

The old man peers up from the floor, “Oh mighty one, I carry your vase close to my heart so that you will be the first to behold its beauty.”

Intrigued, the Emperor leans forward. “Show me, show me, now.”

Slowly, the old man pulls out the vase, now made whole. Each crack filled with gold as sparkling as a summer spring. These veins flowed down the vase like the gnarled roots of a mighty tree.

Intrigued, the emperor beckons, “Give it to me.”

He tenderly takes it from the artisan.

In awe, the emperor raises it above his head. Rotating his new vase, he marvels at the golden veins that travel across its surface like the natural poetry of a mountain range. Caressing the vase, his finger traces the gold veins which hold the broken shards together. They go this way and that, mimicking the uncertainty of nature itself. Under his finger, he senses the pulse of life via the viral vitality of nature’s imperfection; its ability to always find a way. His fingertips’ nerves tingle with youthful excitement, sending his mind in a reverie of wonderment through the natural world.   

With fresh eyes, the emperor experiences the beauty of nature’s imperfection captured in his resurrected vase. Grateful tears ran down his cheeks.

The emperor turns to the old man. “It is magnificent. You have reincarnated imperfection’s beauty. It is indeed more resplendent than before. All my subjects will gaze upon it and learn its lessons of rebirth through the acceptance of imperfection.” Smiling, he places the vase on the table on his right. “What will your payment be, my master craftsman? You may have anything you wish.”

With head bowed, the old potter says, “My only wish, oh mighty one, is to hold it one more time.”

The emperor squints at the potter with suspicion. Yet to maintain an illusion of magnanimity, he extends the vase to the artisan. As the transfer is made, the vase slips through the old man’s fingers and shatters on the stone floor.

In a fit of rage, the emperor motions to the guard who impales the artisan with his pike. The ceramist crumbles to the floor. Dying, he watches his blood fill the voids between vase’s broken shards and make them whole again. He smiles as he dies.

Two steps forward and one step back is how history is written. And thus, the Japanese art of Kintsukuroi (Kin su k roy) is lost, only to rise again five hundred years later.

Behold!

Listen to this story.

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