Broken Glass

This weekend has been a rare weekend without obligations and activities and, even more remarkably. very little time spent in the trusty Honda Pilot.  I spend very little time in this house and, as a result, only the very necessary housekeeping tasks are completed.  So, yesterday, I took great pleasure in deep cleaning bathrooms and sorting sock drawers and washing bedding and cleaning out the refrigerator.  It was during this last task that *it* happened.

The refrigerator had not been cleaned since we moved in.  Yes, I know.  Yuck.  I threw away outdated condiments and cleaned out the produce drawers and pulled out all of the shelves to clean them thoroughly in warm, soapy water.  The shelves are made of glass - thick, sturdy sheets of glass.  Glass that is so heavy that it almost doesn't feel like glass.  One shelf was made of a long and wide piece of glass that spanned the length and width of the refrigerator.  I took this shelf and carefully placed it by the sink and gently scooped warm soapy water onto its surface.  I was listening to the Bruno Mars Station because that was what Alexa decided to play when I asked her to play some music.  Megan Trainor's "All About that Bass" was playing and I hummed along to the familiar tune.  

I felt peace as I carefully wiped the glass surface clean and then that peace was shattered....literally shattered.  With no evidence of any fractures or cracks or any sort of stress, the glass shelf shattered...no, EXPLODED...in my hands.  Glass shards shot about all around me filling the sink, piling upon my counter top, and skittering across the hardwood floor.  Pieces of glass embedded themselves into my palms and fingers and blood dripped from the fresh wounds.  I stood there in stunned silence for a couple of moments and then shouted something.  I don't think it was an expletive, but it might have been.  I surveyed the damage and my wounds and wondered how on earth to go about cleaning up the mess.

Weekends at home provide a lot of time for contemplation.  As I thought about the shattered glass shelf,  I marveled again at how surprising it was.  One moment, the shelf was sturdy and solid in my hands and in the next half moment it was destroyed and broken shards lay about me.  I still can't even imagine how that happened.  I had done nothing "wrong."  I was trying to clean it up, in fact.  I was showing it love and attention.  I was being gentle and careful.  Despite all of that, still the glass shattered.

Of course, this moment was too dramatic not to view symbolically.  Given all that has happened in the last couple of years, I can hardly be blamed for seeing a parallel between the broken glass shelf and the mess my life is currently in.  Just as the glass exploded in my hands with no warning, my life changed dramatically overnight.  I feel like I've spent the past year or so trying to find all of the broken shards and fit them back together - a never ending jigsaw puzzle.  Along the way, I re-cut my fingers and accidentally pierce my skin.  Just as my cut up fingers twinge with pain today, my heart and soul still ache from what has happened.  I think about it every.damn.day.  I feel it every.damn.day. Moving on is hard when you're trying to piece together a million tiny pieces.  

Of course, yesterday, I didn't put the shelf together.  It doesn't make sense.  Maybe it doesn't make sense to put my life back together to what it was either.  Even if I could put all the pieces back together, there would still be cracks and fissures.  The shelf couldn't bear the weight of pickle jars and yogurt containers.  My life will never be put back together the way it was.  I've figured that out now.  

My learning curve with the shelf was less steep, so I didn't even try to fix the shelf.  Instead,  I hollered for the kids and the dogs to stay put. I told them to put on shoes and to avoid the kitchen until I could get it cleaned up.  With blood dripping from my palms, I used the broom to sweep up the shards that had been strewn across the floor.  There was no time to survey my own wounds and give attention to those cuts. I needed to keep my people safe.  I always keep my people safe. At least, I try to keep my people safe.  Sometimes, the shards of glass hide themselves and they get hurt anyway.  Still, I work to keep my people safe.  

Once I knew feet and paws were very probably protected from surprise cuts, I looked at the rest of the wreckage.  Before the glass had shattered, I was in the middle of a task.  Containers of old leftovers were sitting on the counter, the refrigerator shelves were stacked haphazardly across the rest of the counter-top, and the food that was still good was sitting on the Island.  I could have tended to my wounds or cleaned up the rest of the glass, but instead I opted to clean the shelves that had not exploded so that the food could be put away.  No sense wasting good food when the shelf was going to stay broken anyway and my little cuts were not life threatening.  

Isn't that how it goes, especially for women?  I may be hurt, but life keeps moving along and the work doesn't stop piling up.  There was no time for crying or bandaging up the cuts.  I had to keep the food from spoiling.  I had to get the stuff done, regardless of how I was hurting.  Just like I do every day.  I get the shiznit done.  

Then, I went about the process of dealing with the rest of the glass.  I contemplated dealing with my cuts first, but there didn't seem to be a point when I knew I'd probably get more cuts in the cleaning up process.  Sure enough, with each swipe of the rag, I winced in pain as I brushed the glass into the waste basket.  Gosh, isn't that like life?  When cleaning up the messes or mistakes or heartbreak, there is no easy answer or easy process.  You still get hurt as you move forward and make progress.  

I saved the glass shards that were in the sink full of soapy water for last.  I knew there was a pile of broken glass at the bottom, but I couldn't see it because of the soap on the surface.  I was afraid to stick my hand in, but I knew I had to.  With a deep breath, I plunged in and felt around for the pieces.  I was poked and cut but i was able to slowly fish out most of the glass and place it into the waste basket.  It never got less scary to plunge my hand into the unknown depths of the sink, but the hazards became predictable.  I knew I'd get a few cuts each time and there was nothing to do about it.

This is where I am right now.  I'm at the point in my journey where an unknown future lies before me and all I can do is forge ahead and hope for the best...all while knowing I'm going to get hurt along the way.  Although, I could plunge my hand into the sink with courage, I'm finding this phase of my life journey to be too scary.  I'm standing with my hand poised above the sink, but fear prevents me from taking that first, painful plunge.  

Maybe it's because I know what happens in the end.  Of course, I couldn't get all of the glass out of the sink.  The pieces were too little.  So, I had to drain it.  I had to carefully remove the stopper and try to capture as many of the tiny, remaining shards before they fell into the garbage disposal.  I tried to minimize the amount of glass that went down the drain, but it was impossible to prevent it totally.  I ran the disposal and could hear the crunching the glass as the blades spun.  I'd guess that will happen for some time.  It takes a while for metal to break down small glass pieces.  I'll be reminded of the shelf implosion for some time.  

That's what's sort of disheartening.  Despite all of my best efforts and careful considerations and attention to those I love, the problem can't be fixed neatly or completely.  There is no perfect clean up.  The reverberations of this will be felt and heard for years to come and I will remember the pain forever. So what is the motivation to take the first plunge when I know it will hurt and I'll feel and hear the effects for years to come...and maybe forever?

Well, because you can't sit around with broken glass scattered about you, can you now?  

There is a little post-script to this story.  While I was in the midst of the worst of the mess, my sister arrived for a visit.  After a quick explanation of what happened, she set to work.  I had already swept the floor, but she grabbed the broom and found the shards I'd missed.  She grabbed a rag and helped sweep the glass into the trash.  She risked her own hands and fingers to help me.  I could have cleaned it all up myself, but her help made it easier and faster.  The lesson?  We need our people.  I need my people.  Will you be my people?

And, also, maybe I should check on those cuts...  

xoxo ~Sara