Memoir: The Perfect Imperfection

This is the story of a bowl, a wedding and the love of many hands.


It all began in Ireland, in the workshop of one fine Benedictine monk, Brother Ciaran Forbes. He is a master in his trade, though I knew nothing of him before my wedding.

This lovely, hand-turned sycamore bowl traveled from his workshop in Glenstal Abbey and passed through the usual fine art galleries here in the states. It was there that my sister in law, having a keen eye for restful beauty, purchased it as a wedding gift for us.

The woodturner’s spirit was truly infused within the form of this creation. Her (the bowl) curve is perfect in its rise to the rim, where it speaks of her strength and stability.  Her inner arc swoops for the perfect salad, allowing dressing to reach through all the ingredients. And may I say, she graced our table for over twenty years. Her voice was gentle and reassuring, whether she held a gathering of fruit, a sumptuous salad, or even the temporary collection thingamajigs left lying around. Her color changed gradually over the years, highlighting the variations in thickness. Truthfully, I should say, thinness, for there are spots so thin as to allow the light through her wall.

As nothing remains the same, and all living things show the signs of their purposed life, she, too, gave way, surrendering a small piece of herself. I was sad that day, as I looked at my precious bowl, now unable to hold a salad. And though I tried to comfort myself in designating her only to fruit, it seemed unacceptable. My loving husband offered to fix it; as he was always willing to fix anything that caused pain and sorrow. I knew he would be more than capable of sealing the hole, but this was a job for a woodturner.

She sat patiently with her open wound for a couple of years as life demanded other priorities. And no salad tasted quite the same in any other bowl.

It was during this passage that I too,  lost a piece of myself – my husband, my friend, my most significant other; he left this world without warning, leaving me with a new awareness of our wedding bowl with the hole in it. How imperfectly perfect that it didn’t get mended before his passing. Now she and I became new comrades in our grief. Somehow her voice grew louder and more comforting. There were days when looking upon her wound gave me solace. On other days I wanted to frantically cover the wound from the outside world. It would be our secret.

But secrets are to be shared. And holes, though the home of sorrow, are also the home of new birth. The healing process was set in motion.  Who would mend my bowl? Could it even be mended? That thought lasted for only a day or so. Jacques Vesery, artist and sculptor, lives one town away. The phone call was made. Of course, he wasn’t home, as he travels a lot. So I left my bowl story and request with his wife. It would be sometime before I heard from him, which mattered little since grief takes away all sense of urgency.

Enter Facebook messaging. There he is, back from Turkey, or was it France?  Hard to keep track of this traveling artist, who often has his hand in a collaborative work on making peace and building bridges amongst nations.

” Yes, it can be mended. ”  His words offered new breath. He simply wanted to know what aesthetic imagery I wanted. My choice was to have him blend the wood to disguise it or to shine a new light on a significant event. I obviously chose the latter. For those of you who don’t know, it is customary to repair a broken tea bowl with pure gold, raising it to a higher level of importance. No need to hide our scars. They declare our secrets proudly.

He soon called to announce the mission accomplished. I could pick it up at my convenience, whether he was home or not. It would be left in the mud room, “just let yourself in.” That’s the way things are done in my town.

Fortunately for me, he was home. As he handed me the bowl, I felt new life beginning, along with the sting of sorrowful remembrances. There before me was the celebrated wound, now transformed. And I swear I could hear her voice of loving gratitude. Jacques was quiet as I took in his fine craftsmanship. He’s a humble man, much like my beloved husband.When I calmed down a bit, he shared the back story of his “mending.”  He knew the Benedictine craftsman as well as the workshop where my blessed bowl was created. So it only seemed fitting that the “mend” should somehow reflect that. He also knew my deep love for Ireland. The wood he chose was, in my mind, beyond thoughtful. It was spirit moving. The wood he chose was oak. Oak, as he explained, is usually blonde. “But your oak is a bit special.” It’s deep brown color comes from time, a very long time. Thousands of years old, the beautifully embedded bow mend comes from the peat bogs of Ireland.

I inhaled those words as I did the very scent of the bog on our honeymoon years ago, wanting it to linger in my being forever. And I knew, without a doubt, that my beloved husband, from an unseen world, had his hand in this mending.

bowl2


Author’s Bio:

Alex

Alexsondra Tomasulo

I have been writing about my personal and intimate journeys for a few decades.  My scope includes grief, depression, forgiveness, transformation, and redemption. I love poetry, short stories, and essays.I have been working as a ceramic artist and teacher for a bit over forty years. It is through my meditative art process that I have found a quiet space from which I am able to create my stories. Now, after the loss of my beloved husband, I have found a new rhythm in the art of play as it relates to each artistic endeavor. I live on the coast of Maine, where the winters are majestic and the summers intoxicating.   

Blog: afishinthewind.com


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S.W. Biddulph

Scott Biddulph is a published writer, author, and poet from North Georgia. He began writing as a youngster and followed his lifelong dream of reaching people through the written word when he returned to The University of North Georgia in 2013 to finish earning his BA/English with a concentration on publication and creative writing. His publications include the following: an eBook, Apples of Gold: A collection of inspirational short stories and poems (Smashwords, 2010) and a paperback, Voices from the Heart, (Createspace, 2012). His poetry is published in Papers and Publications Undergraduate Research Journal. Vol 3 (2014) and the award-winning Chestatee Review (Spring, 2015), among other places (Check his LinkedIn profile for a full list of his publications). He is currently working on publishing poetry, creative non-fiction, academic essays, and his memoir. ******** Scott has also worked as an intern editor for the University of North Georgia Press. As a freelance editor, he has done the layout and design of several books and magazines. He is currently working with several authors on various publication projects in which he is either ghostwriting, editing manuscripts, or doing the layout and design of their books. ******** Finally, and most importantly, he is a father, grandfather, husband, and dedicated Harley Davidson rider. He and his family enjoy the beauty of the North Georgia Mountains where they live—especially their screened in back porch where they love to bird watch. ******** ~ "I love realism. I love writing about the raw, down-to-Earth, heartfelt realities of life. I love to write in a way that reaches into the human soul—to take the greatest pains and struggles in life, and make them a blessing to others. Fantasy is a wonderful, interesting thing—but real-life situations, feelings, fears, and dreams are an unexplored ocean of stories that need to be told." ~ ~Scott Biddulph~

12 comments

  1. Hi, Alexsondra. You have provided an unforgettable memoir for me. Your words paint an extraordinary collage that exudes, amplifies, the personal emotions presented.

    Riveting, soul-stirring, inspiring.

    Your post greatly appreciated, Alexsondra.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Alexsondra – Your story resonated with me for many reasons, most of which I don’t yet know how to articulate. The bowl…the brokenness…the value despite the break…the mending….the losing…the grieving….your ongoing love (for the bowl and then, of course, even more, for your husband)…the serendipity of the mender’s connection with the creator of the bowl….the constancy of love that you share, even now, with your beloved. The imagery you have offered in the telling of your story is lovely. Because I love bowls and the symbolism of bowls, and because I am in a grief space in my life right now, coming here just now, in this present, precious moment, to read your words feels even more meaningful for me than it otherwise would have. And it would have, regardless of time or place! THANK YOU for sharing your heart, and of course, the photo of your bowl, which I was hoping for as I read! – Barbara Drewry

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Alexsondra – Thank you for sharing such a beautifully intimate story of beauty, love, grief and unexpected gifts in the midst of mourning.
    I am so sorry for your loss of your husband. How wonderful to have this beautifully mended piece as a reminder of special times shared together. Quite an amazing story!

    Liked by 2 people

    • thank you. I look forward to the day I can return with my two grown sons. The Scent of the bog lingers in my nostrils and I remain grateful for all that Ireland provided me with in a healing and inspirational trip

      Like

  4. Alexsondra, what an absolutely touching story! My heart grieves for your loss, but immensely thankful you shared this personal part of your life. Your words painted a beautiful flow of words for me follow and feel your pain. Thank you, John.

    Liked by 2 people

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