Compassionate Creating through Kintsugi
Kintsugi works in progress at the retreat
When I first tried my hand at kintsugi, I was filled with a mixture of anticipation and reverence. The bowl I chose to repair had sentimental value, and its fractures felt like wounds that needed healing. As I carefully applied the lacquer and dusted the cracks with powdered gold, I found myself immersed in the process, almost meditative.
—Zoshan, Afghan retreat participant
The story of kintsugi begins with an act of compassion.
A warlord, a tea master, and a servant walk into a bar.
The tea master prepares an elegant ceremony to honor the warlord. The servant accidentally drops a precious piece of teaware, breaking it in five pieces. The warlord raises his hand to strike the servant, but the tea master intervenes, taking the blame for the broken teaware upon himself and offering to restore the broken ceramic. He has it repaired using lacquer dusted with gold. The warlord is stunned by the beauty of the repaired teaware. In its re-creation it has become something altogether new, something more precious than the original.
My friend, Christine, invited me to lead a kintsugi workshop for a group of young Afghan women who had fled Kabul in 2021 at the hands of the Taliban, finding shelter at any American university that would take them. In a moment’s notice, they left their entire support network of family and friends, their homes and their cultures.
Life as they knew it had shattered.
At the beginning of the workshop, I told the story of how kintsugi began, making the connection that engaging in the art of kintsugi continues to be an act of compassion—compassion towards oneself. The broken pieces of the pot may not come together as we want them to, and our untried fingers may feel ill-equipped for the job.
So we notice the tension and seek to respond to ourselves with patience and kindness.
Kintsugi is a meditative art. As we mend broken pots, we reflect on our own stories, how we’ve experienced fractures through traumas, broken relationships, and unexpected circumstances. Perhaps we remember ways we’ve contributed to someone else’s brokenness.
As we talk and work at the kintsugi table, we are invited to make connections between the work of our hands and our stories.
As we pick up and inspect the broken pieces of pottery, we notice and name some of the "broken" parts of our own story.
As we fit the pieces back together with care and attention, we graciously hold these parts of our story.
As we rebuild the pottery, we recognize that our story is still unfolding and that we are invited to actively participate in the creative process.
And as we notice the beauty that emerges from the repair, we look for the beauty that is emerging from our own stories.
One of my favorite stories in the Christian Scriptures is of Doubting Thomas—the disciple who misses Christ’s first post-resurrection appearance to the other disciples (who knows where Thomas might have been?) and firmly declares that unless he sees the visible wounds of Christ, he will never believe. A week later, Jesus returns and this time moves directly towards Thomas, showing him the scars and inviting him to reach out and touch them. This is kintsugi in the flesh—walking, breathing, talking, transformed. (In my imagination, those scars gleamed a bit in the light as Christ uncovered them for Thomas.)
Artist and author Makoto Fujimura makes this connection between the risen Christ and kintsugi in his book Art and Faith: A Theology of Making. “The biblical vision of the new world accompanies the reminders of the wounds of Christ. The resurrected Christ still bears the wounds of the crucifixion. Through these sacred wounds a new world is born; through the revealing of the wounds still embedded in the new body of Christ, our faith is given.”
Scripture gives us the imagery of ourselves as clay in the hands of the Potter. I wonder if we can extend that metaphor to see ourselves as broken pots in the hands of the Kintsugi Master.
The process of Kintsugi is meticulous and deeply meaningful…the visible cracks are highlighted with the golden paste, creating intricate, gleaming veins that trace the points of breakage. This not only repairs the object but also transforms it into something more beautiful and valuable, celebrating its history and imperfections. There is a famous quote in Farsi that says, "The heart is like glass, once the glass is broken, it is not repairable," which is like the idea that if you break someone's heart, it cannot be truly mended. Even if you repair it, it is not the same. Through Kintsugi, I learned that while this is true, repaired objects can become something new and beautiful. Engaging in this process encouraged a feeling of creativity within me and instilled a sense of responsibility to finish what I started. I couldn't just leave the plate broken; I had the chance to repair it, and I felt compelled to do so.
—Mina, Afghan retreat participant
