My Broken Cup

We are caught in a whirlwind of decluttering frenzy. Serious questions are asked, every item is in peril of answering why they deserve to be here. And very quickly we shed any material attachment to any object that is overstaying its welcome. The more difficult ones are those that we hang on to for sentimental reasons. So for me, if an item is broken and beyond repair, it's gotta go. I don't have room in my life for broken things. I believe like attracts like in the strange alchemy of life philosophy, and I don't want to attract more broken things.

Which brings me to my broken cup, well okay it's technically a mug. Catering quality white ceramic mug (you can use them to bake giant cupcakes if you like) part of a set of 3, and one day I dropped one resulting in the loss of its handle. If it had been smashed or cracked or leaking, it would go straight in the bin. But surely it can still serve a function, it can still hold liquids, uh no, but okay, we just grab a handful of pens and stick 'em all in and voila ! it's a pen caddy now. I have given it a token job just because it didn't deserve to be rubbish just yet. I feel kinda guilty because it was my fault it lost its handle.

So are there any broken cups in your life? Whether or not you are hanging on to them for the right or wrong reasons is less important than actually knowing the reason you keep them in your life.

Sadistic Mongrel

This is the hate part in the love/hate relationship I have with Zappa. I thought we were going down the valley, we kind of were. It was another new route that started in the middle and led to the creek, across it and uphill again. My lungs were burning, a sensation to be re-experienced several times more today. There was a short-cut, but Zappa ignored it and followed the road up the hill and round the bend. At which point he stopped to check some messages, finally I can catch my breath. The break didn't last long, Zappa led me down via the short-cut he ignored before. Back across the creek and up the hill following the road. We ducked in and out of streets, mostly trotting with occasional stops to sniff or pee at something. Of which I am grateful for as I hungrily suck in more air. Sometimes the lung burn is accompanied by stitches on my kidney. Zappa is happily trotting along while I try to keep up, my pride preventing me from admitting that I am not as fit as this damn dog! Meanwhile I start to recognise and remember houses. I imagine what it must be like to live there and how and when did it come to be. What do the occupants want us to think of them.