Beautiful Broken Things

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My boy’s shell haul

My three-year-old son loves picking up seashells. He combs the beach with laser precision, able to spot a treasure no matter how obscured or buried it may be. And he procures them with gusto, gleefully exclaiming, “here’s an awesome one!”

Last week we made our annual family trek to the beach, so pretty much every day, he and I trawled the shoreline looking for shells.

But after the first day or so, I began to notice something. While I searched for perfect specimens–symmetrical shells with no breaks or holes or other blemishes–my son was a bit less discriminating. Actually, it was like he was intentionally trying to pick up the gnarliest, most pitiful shells he could find.

“Look at this one,” I called to him, holding up a pristine white oyster shell.

He studied it for a second and then held up a broken piece of a similar shell, “But check this one out!”

At first, I would reply in the affirmative just to humor him, but after a while, I started to realize something. The shells he was choosing actually were awesome.

Yeah, they were broken or oddly shaped or full of holes. But they were interesting. Different. Weird. My bucket full of perfectly-shaped, flawless shells was pretty, but it was also boring. I could find the exact same assemblage inside a lamp at the beach house, or in a prepackaged bag at a gift shop.

Whereas his was filled with cool colors, textures and shapes–splashes of purple and amber, the juxtaposition of jagged edges alongside sea-smoothed curves, shells that looked more like moon rocks than sea life, riddled with hundreds of tiny holes.

These shells told a story. They hadn’t arrived on the shore in one piece. They’d lost their inhabitants. They’d been battered, beaten and carried who knows how far by the currents, rolled up and down the beach as storms and tides stirred them up from the sea floor.

As I watched my son marvel over these imperfect pieces, I began to see the beauty in broken things. The uneven, misshapen things. The not-quite-right things. The battered and scarred things.

We get so caught up searching for perfection–the right haircut, the perfectly-shaped breasts, the thin thighs, the flat stomachs, the smooth skin–that we miss the utter, distinctive beauty right in front of our asymmetrical faces.

Those imperfections tell our story–who we are, where we came from, what we’ve been through. They make us interesting. They make us individuals. And whether we choose to believe it or not, they make us beautiful.

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Good Days

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My boy, on the pathway to happiness

I’m the type of person who always searches for some sort of lesson or sense of meaning when a bad thing happens. Even when terrible things occur, there almost always seems to be at least one little kernel of good that comes of the calamity. I need this silver lining to help me make sense of the bad, heal and move on.

When my mom died, I spent a long time looking for the why. It seemed so cruel and unjust to have her taken from us so soon. But in the years since her passing, I’ve been able to recognize the gifts her loss gave me. A stronger relationship with my dad. The means to live on my own after college. The pain that fed my creativity and allowed me to realize my true calling as a writer.

With my cancer diagnosis, I’ve tried to do the same thing. In the wreckage of treatment, fear and medical bills, I’ve found little blessings that have given me a sense of meaning in this horrible thing. A new sense of perspective (I no longer sweat the small stuff), a deeply humbling sense of gratitude for the people in my life (my family, friends, coworkers and even complete strangers have floored me with their love and kindness) and a new-found appreciation for life.

That last one is a biggie. I feel like I’ve always been appreciative of life, but like most people, I had a tendency to get caught up in the day-to-day bullshit that can distract you from what really matters.

But now, I have a new awareness of my mortality. I know that my time could be cut short. I know that each and every day matters, and I need to do everything I can to make the most of them, no matter how many I have left.

So, this year I decided to do everything I could to live my life to the fullest. Take the trip. Go to the show. Eat the amazing meal. Buy the fabulous pair of shoes. I’m not going overboard, mind you–everything in moderation and all that–but rather, I’m telling myself to say “yes” more often and enjoy as much as I possibly can.

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A boy and the sea

With that in mind, I’ve jam-packed this summer with fun. Last week, we went on our family beach trip, this year visiting Oak Island, N.C., for the first time. It was an amazing trip–just the right balance of activity and utter laziness. Clear-blue sunny beach days with a couple of rainy afternoons tailor-made for napping, reading and boozy card games.

Perhaps most enjoyable, though, was watching my son fall madly in love with the beach. This was his third beach trip, and this was the year he finally got it. The first year, he was just a baby and the water freaked him out. Last year, he was a bit more into it, but still not totally convinced.

This year, though? I had to practically drag him inside every afternoon. He played in the surf, squealing with delight as tiny fish skittered around his feet. He ran up and down the shore, greeting dogs, other children and pretty much anyone who crossed his path. He picked up two buckets worth of shells, and he and I built more sandcastles than I can count.

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Muse

Last night, I continued my quest for living life to the fullest by attending a concert with my sister.

In my younger days, I went to concerts all the time. But, as I’ve gotten older and become a mom, I’ve seen fewer and fewer shows, especially those that happen on week nights.

But last night was different. When my sister asked me months ago if I’d like to go with her to see Muse and 30 Seconds to Mars I said yes without hesitation. If I’m being totally honest, I barely know these two bands. But I really wanted the opportunity to hang out with my sister, so I decided to go for it, even though the concert was on a Thursday night.

I’m so glad I did. Even though I didn’t get home until 2 a.m. (and had to drag my ass into work in the morning), I had the best time. The show was amazing. Muse was excellent, as was 30 Seconds to Mars. If you’re not familiar, actor Jared Leto is the lead singer of 30 Seconds. Yeah, Jordan freaking Catalano.

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Be still my teenage heart

If you were a teenage girl in the ’90s, chances are you were in love with Jared “Jordan Catalano” Leto, the bad boy who broke Claire Danes’ heart on the amazing series “My So-Called Life.” And then, of course, Jared won an Oscar a few years ago for his incredible performance in “Dallas Buyer’s Club.” Suffice it to say I was stoked to see him in person.

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I even love him with a Unabomber beard.

So, you can imagine how I lost my shit when he ran off the stage last night to serenade a boy in a wheelchair mere feet from where I was sitting. It was a sweet moment, and it made the concert even more special and amazing.

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Sisters

But even more than seeing my teenage TV crush, spending some quality time with my younger sister truly made the night. We sang, laughed and even cried a little–and I loved every minute of it. In the immortal words of Rayanne Graff, “We had a time.”

The old pre-cancer me probably would have declined her invitation. Driving to Charlotte for a concert on a school night? Sounds like too much trouble. It’s easier just to stay home. But that kind of attitude causes me to miss out on memorable experiences, so I’m trying my best to fight that instinct to stay in. Life’s just too short not to sop up every drop of enjoyment possible.