There Was Nothing I Could Do For This Old Plate

I was at Goodwill Tuesday. I am usually there looking for project inspiration in the form of something that is broken, old, or worn, something I can mend, repair, paint, or repurpose.  I do some of my most powerful brainstorming and creative thinking there. I came across an old, once-was-white dish, a small platter. A small portion of its scalloped edging had chipped off leaving its ceramic insides on display. Hairline cracks made their way across the plate,  and dark spots in various sizes seeped all the way through, showing on the underside. I casually spoke to a lady beside me who I didn’t know, but felt somehow connected to as our treasure hunting led us to standing side by side staring at the same dishes on the same shelf in the same store.  “How do you think I could get these stains out? What do you think this is?”  “I don’t think you can get those out," she told me.  "Those are heat marks and probably go all the way through.” I turned the small once-was-white platter over to inspect, and found that she was correct. “I don’t think you can fix that either. That’s broken right off.”  There was nothing I could do for this old plate.

I was scrolling through facebook a couple of days ago, and I stopped on a picture that a friend who is my age had posted of herself. As I studied the picture, I was struck by her wrinkles. Several lines of wrinkles formed around her eyes, underneath and on the corners when she heartily smiled. They were lovely.  I thought about her wrinkles, and how each one developed over years of smiling, laughing, loving, living, for every laugh line a memory, a lifetime of stories woven together to form every crease. I thought about how beautiful her wrinkles were, not only in a metaphorical, symbolic kind of way, but pretty. Her wrinkles are very pretty.

 

I thought about the plate again, and all of the hairline cracks and various sized brown spots all the way through and the place where it had been damaged leaving its insides exposed. I thought about how that plate must have stories to tell. I don’t know its history, but could imagine it sitting on a kitchen counter piled high with biscuits every single Sunday afternoon. Someone carried it to the table where it sat until the blessing was asked. After years of wear, it was replaced, and it sat around in a drawer or a box in the attic until someone finally decided to donate it. I bet they wondered if they should even donate it, with its heat stains and cracks and its chipped edge.  The old plate was worn, but I thought it was really beautiful, both in that metaphorical, symbolic way, and also because it was simply pretty.

To me, nothing is just what it is. Everything is a little bit more. I went back for the plate. I brought it home and put it proudly on display, where it won't serve biscuits, but will serve as a reminder.  A reminder that with stories and history and service, we withstand cracking and aging and dark spots from time to time, and that with those things come sort of an earned beauty that deserves a second look.  Living can often leave us feeling open and vulnerable and exposed, but with maturity and experience and lots and lots of laughter, we learn to love and accept that openness, displaying it with grace and charm.  I could not do anything for the plate, so I let it do for me.

 

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