In a way, we are all, every one of us, damaged goods.

In Persia, the greatest rug makers frequently add a small flaw to their weaving. When asked the reason for this strange practice, they reply that the soul of the rug needs to breathe and that that would be impossible if he rug were perfect. So when I notice how screwed up I've sometimes been, I give a sigh of relief and thank the Lord that I can still breathe.

When I see someone acting out of sorts, especially if it's a wise old psychoanalyst or a famous philosopher, I say to myself, "You see, they too need to breathe! Lucky for them they admit to being damaged goods or they'd be dead on their feet."

Pierre Bonnard, the great French painter once said, "It's the flaws that make the painting!"
I like that. Flaws give character. It's the mould on the cheese or the wine's rot on the grape that provides the greatest pleasure. Without flaws, things would be terribly boring. And flaws usually come from various kinds of damage that has been done to us. The musical play that has sustained itself for over forty years, The Fantasticks, has the line at the center of its theme song, "Without a hurt, the heart is hollow."

But sometimes the damage slows us down and makes the dish a bit too sharp, the wine too acrid, the cheese too stinky. That's when damage repair has to come into play. You can do it all by yourself or you can get help. But ultimately, in either case if it's successful, it has to be you. In a way, you watch yourself die as you are consumed in a kind of flaming hell and then lo and behold, someone new arises from the ashes. You may not like him at first but you get used to him, even sympathetic with him. But is he you? That's the point where you begin the search for your old, flawed self. You're lucky if you find it, and if you do, then you must be a good cook and make sure that this time the ingredients are well balanced, not tasteless but not too stinky either.

© 2004__Muldoon Elder