You’ve broken a glass. As a child, you mistakenly let it slip from your hand, or brush against it without knowing, and soon the glass is tumbling out of your control and shattering to the floor. The glass is broken and now you are fearful. You fear the angry look that will come from your parents. You fear them hearing the shattering and stomping into the room ready to punish. Your eyes are watering even while you shakily sweep up the pieces into your dust bin. Even though you know it was all an accident you still fear them finding the broken shards in the garbage. Your fear of disappointing them consumes you even long after you’ve cleaned up your mess and you’ve gone back to watching your cartoons. The authority of punishment is enough to make you repent as a child, even of a broken glass, a common mistake.
But once you’ve grown and only have to answer to yourself, you break a glass in your home. You might laugh; might laugh at your clumsiness and then clean it up and be on your way. A glass is a glass and is nothing to cry over. But what if you start to cry? You’re crying over the shards, cutting your fingers as you carelessly sweep them into your hands. This glass is a representation of your lack of focus, another destruction that you caused. Or, perhaps it’s not your fault, and you’re angry that anyone could ever think it was your fault. This glass is insignificant and it was out of your power to save it; why blame it on me? Blame the moment of destiny.
You’ve broken a glass in your house or your home, in your mind or your dreams, the glass has been shattered before. And no matter your reaction to this shattering glass, the one thing that stays sure is that you must clean up the pieces.