At some point, I thought (foolishly) that when I looked back on my life, it was supposed to look like a masterpiece, like a priceless oil painting completed by a master artist. Stroke by stroke, color by color, it would be formed into something beautiful over time. Shadowing and light would add depth and beauty as time passed and all these things would come together to form a perfect, unique masterpiece.
But I was wrong.
The brush strokes of my experiences are not fluid and do not create becoming forms as I imagined. The lines of my plans are not smooth. Rather, the edges are jagged and the colors of my personality are pieced together seemingly at random, often in clashing colors. Many times, things in my life are anything but beautiful.
In fact, my life looks nothing like an oil painting.
Or a watercolor.
Or a pastel.
Or a charcoal.
Or an acrylic.
Really, my life is so broken and messed up that it seems like it is hardly worth even considering for a finger painting. There are just too many random, uneven pieces and I think they are all just too different to come together to create art.
But when I take a step back, I am surprised to see that the pieces of my life have formed something, something that looks like art.
Something that is beautiful.
My life is not a masterpiece of smooth lines and well blended colors. But it is a work of art, of a different kind.
It definitely does not look like a beautiful oil painting.
My life is a mosaic.
The shards and broken pieces, the jagged edges and uneven lines alone don't seem worthwhile. But when they are pieced together, they create a beautiful picture. They make something beautiful out of what seems like worthless scraps of experiences, broken hearts, hurts, and mistakes. And each new piece, every pain and lesson and joy, completes the picture and gives it more depth, more beauty. And I can only see it when I take a step back.
Maybe all these broken and scattered pieces are worth something after all.
Maybe my life really is a masterpiece.
