Allowed to Be Broken

What happens when we stop rushing the repair and listen to what still needs to be felt

“…words fail in the face of the mystery that is death. Poetry, on the other hand, is built to hold uncertainty and contradiction, joy and sorrow, often at the same moment in time.”

James Crews, Turning Toward Grief

I picked up James Crews’ book on grief this week. It’s a beautiful reflection on his own experience of loss, offering permission to stay broken for as long as we need to. In the opening poem, “Kintsugi Again,” he reminds us that those gold-repaired pots we love to reference were often left broken for years, sometimes generations, before the restoration began.

This has been a theme of my recovery, simply letting the grief rise as it needs to rise, being open to the emotions that surface without running from them. It’s not always an easy thing to do. Sometimes sitting with the emotions can trigger bouts of depression that aren’t always about the grief itself, but about other unresolved places of pain that raise their heads to join the party.

There have been a number of days in the last few weeks when I’ve found tears rolling down my cheeks. My therapist always asks, “Where do you feel it in your body?” The answer: It’s in my chest, somewhere between my heart and my throat. And it hurts there. Yes, it hooks into the grief, but I’ve been trying to identify this frozen, stuck feeling that comes with it.

Today, as I was walking my hills, it hit me. This is how I used to feel when my mother gave us the silent treatment. Frozen. Unable to reach out or ask for help. It simply wasn’t done. I felt small and trapped, like a rabbit afraid to move.

As much work as I’ve done to untangle my complex relationship with the woman who gave me life, sitting with this particular feeling feels like a next step. So that’s what I’ve been doing this week, just sitting with it.

It’s a broken place, and I’m not rushing to fill it with anything. I’m staying curious. I’m asking that little girl what she needs. I’m holding myself with compassion. This, too, is part of the journey, and it will take as long as it takes.

I want to share a journaling practice that has been helpful to me over the years.

Lectio divina (Latin for “divine reading”) is an ancient contemplative practice of engaging with sacred or meaningful texts in a slow, reflective way. Rather than studying for information, you read to be transformed, to listen for what the text is awakening in you.

Traditionally, lectio divina unfolds in four movements:

1. Lectio (Read): Slowly read the passage, noticing any word or phrase that stands out.

2. Meditatio (Reflect): Sit with what you noticed. Let it speak to you. Ask, “Why this word? What might it reveal?”

3. Oratio (Respond): Offer a response from the heart—perhaps a prayer, a feeling, or a simple awareness that arises.

4. Contemplatio (Rest): Let go of words and thoughts. Rest quietly in the presence of what you’ve received.

In modern practice, lectio divina can be used with any text that nourishes your spirit—a poem, a piece of scripture, or even a passage from a favorite book. It invites you to move beyond analysis into intimacy, allowing the words to become a mirror for your own soul.

The thing I love about this practice is that I can use the same passage again and again and respond to it differently each time.

Here is a recent sample from my own journal using Crews’ poem mentioned above.

Lectio Passage: …/try to find beauty in the broken places too,/ proof of where the fire left its marks on you. These are the last two lines of the poem, “Kintsugi Again,” by James Crews in his book, Turning Toward Grief

Meditation: This speaks to my broken places, especially today. Tears well even as I read. So many marks left on me. Proof. I like that word. Do I wear it like a badge? or do I throw it back?

Response: I don’t want these marks. I’d rather have my husband back. Why me, my self-pitying soul says. I feel angry today when I listen to these words.

Contemplation: (In this section, I allow myself to change the pronouns in whatever passage I am reading and hear the words spoken to me as though from God’s heart to mine.) Be still, Doraine. There is beauty in your broken places. Yes, the fire has left its marks on you, there is proof you have known pain and sadness. It is proof that you have the ability to find stillness even in the midst of pain, that you carry a treasure within. Sit with this, sweet soul.

Find a favorite passage this week and work your own way through this practice, even if you don’t write it down, explore the process. Don’t be afraid to sit with the process of healing in whatever place you may be with curiosity and compassion for yourself.