Kintsugi (金継ぎ)

I attended a workshop on Kintsugi, which means “golden joinery”—the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold or silver lacquer. This technique does not seek to hide flaws but rather embraces them, making the repaired object even more beautiful than before. It is deeply connected to the philosophy of wabi-sabi, which finds beauty in imperfection and impermanence.

Kintsugi originated in 15th-century Japan, in a society where tea ceremonies were not merely social occasions but rituals infused with Zen Buddhist thought. A tea bowl was not just a vessel—it was an embodiment of craftsmanship, a witness to shared conversations, a keeper of memories. Breaking such an object did not mean its story had ended; Kintsugi allowed it to continue, enriched by its scars.

It dawned on me that this practice holds a reverence for life. Some might argue that broken objects have no life, but for their owners, perhaps they do. I imagined the hands that first created such a piece, working with clay dug from the earth. Fingers pressing into soft, damp material, shaping and molding its curves with precision and care.

The hands of the potter, steady and knowing, trimmed the excess, smoothing edges, refining its form. Then came the fire—the transformation. Placed in a kiln, the raw clay hardened, turning into something durable, something that could hold, contain, serve.

Then another pair of hands took over—the painter, the glazer, the artisan who adorned it. Perhaps they brushed on delicate patterns, layering pigments, sealing the surface with a final glaze before the fire took it once more, solidifying its colors, its beauty.

Each piece was unique. The artisans poured their time, their breath, their being into the work. Even if they tried, they could never create the same piece again—because time moves forward, because no moment can be remade, because the past cannot be regained.

Finally, it passed into new hands—the hands of the one who would use it, cradle it in daily rituals, fill it with tea, with warmth, with memory.

How long did it take to make? Days of careful shaping? Weeks of refinement? Months of patience? And when it was finally placed in someone’s hands, was it merely an object, or was it a gift of time, patience, and artistry?

Perhaps this finely crafted pottery was once a wedding gift, symbolizing a loving union. Over the years, it became part of daily rituals—the first tea together, the quiet moments before sunrise, the comfort of shared meals.

Then one day, in a moment of fate, it broke. Maybe because of inattention, maybe because of something unseen, maybe even because someone intentionally broke it—because it was your cherished item. But regardless of the reason, it broke.

Yet in Kintsugi, brokenness is not the end. The object is not discarded; it is carefully repaired. The golden seams tell a story of what it has endured—of loss, resilience, and renewal. It becomes more beautiful because it has been broken and healed.

But healing is not instant. Kintsugi is a process—one that takes months to complete, to restore what was shattered in mere seconds.

And so, I wonder: do we see our relationships in the same way?

We create beautiful memories with those we love, sharing our lives, time, and energy. Who we are—our joys, our sorrows, our shared moments—converge when we meet, when we form bonds. But do we honor one another with the same reverence we give to what is broken and repaired?

And even then, we must ask: in moments of misunderstanding, when trust is shaken, when love is wounded, and hearts break—do we mend, or do we walk away? And if we walk away, do we pause to reflect on the pain, the time, the life of the other? Do we honor the transformation, the lessons hidden within the fracture?

Do we sit with our emotions, feel the break, the ripple—the way it lingers, reshaping us? Or do we rush to bury it, pretending it never happened, believing that time alone will erase what was left undone?

And perhaps, more importantly—can we still heal the part that was love, and let go of the part that was pain? Can we accept the cracks, not as something to erase, but as part of what makes us whole? Can we trust, like the repaired cup, that we will hold tea again, that we will create new memories, that life will continue to pour beauty into us?

And what about reverence for life? For those who believe that all is created by the Divine, how do we show reverence to the Creator in the care we give to ourselves and to each other?

In today’s world of fast consumption, where objects are mass-produced and easily replaced, we may have lost something profound. When a machine-made plate breaks, we do not mend it—we simply buy another. But does this mindset extend beyond objects?

Even a machine-made item—has it not traveled, been touched by hands, undergone its own journey before reaching us?

Have we grown accustomed to discarding rather than repairing?

Have we forgotten that what is broken can also be made whole again—perhaps even more beautiful than before?

A broken teacup in Japanese culture is more than just an object—it is a window into a philosophy of life, of healing, of transformation.

It is an invitation to see beauty in the broken, to repair what has meaning, and to create something extraordinary from the fractures.

But only for those who dare to heal.