Kintsugi Bowl

This is the first edition of Objects of Thought. These pieces start with physical things rather than psychological concepts. The history of an object, how it is made, what it conceals. Objects are doors to patterns in human behaviour. They give us something concrete to think with.

A different entry point to questions on being human.

First object: a bowl.

A black ceramic bowl sits on a table near the window. Simple shape. Deep glaze. Wide enough to hold in both hands. At first glance, it appears whole.

The morning light shifts and thin golden lines appear across the surface. They web across the bowl like lightning, following the paths of old fractures. Each raised seam marks where one piece ends and another begins.

It sits steady. It remembers a story five centuries old.

***

The time was the 15th century. The city, Kyoto.

Chinese ceramics were currency among Japanese elite. To own them signalled sophistication. To use them in tea ceremony claimed authority. And to Ashikaga Yoshimasa, the ruling shogun of Japan, they were obsession.

Among his collection, a favourite bowl. Then a crack. Yoshimasa sent it back to China for restoration. It returned with metal staples holding the pieces together. Functional, yes. Beautiful, no.

A basic fix would not suffice. Not for a cherished bowl.

Yoshimasa challenged Japanese craftsmen to find a different way. The answer was kintsugi. Golden joinery. A technique that turns damage into the most striking feature of an object.

***

This technique demands devotion.

Urushi lacquer, derived from tree sap related to poison ivy, adheres the pieces. The sap causes severe irritation. Artisans build immunity gradually. Most still wear gloves and masks. The lacquer must cure at 90% humidity for days, sometimes weeks. Each layer dries before the next is applied. After the final coat hardens, gold powder is dusted into the seams.

The work requires a steady hand, the willingness to return again and again to something that does not yield easily, and the patience to continue even when the outcome is uncertain. It demands acceptance that the result will never look untouched.

The damage permanent, elevated, impossible to miss.

***

A decision precedes technique.

Before lacquer and gold, the bowl exists only in fragments. Someone must decide. Discard or devote? Replace or repair?

Certain breaks are final. A shattered glass. A trust that cannot be restored. All the pieces are there, but there is nothing to save. Other breaks are beginnings.

How do you know which is which? What makes something worth fixing?

We learn early to conceal damage. To present ourselves as whole. To perform seamlessness even when we feel fractured. We edit our stories, minimize our struggles, polish rough edges until they disappear. The goal is to look unbroken.

But the bowl cannot pretend.

***

Once repaired, the bowl looks different. The seams trace paths that did not exist before. The shape holds, but the surface has changed. Something has been added. Something has been lost.

Same clay, same form, same purpose. Is this the same bowl?

Neither the original nor a replacement. It is more complex because it is both.

Perhaps sameness is not the point.

***

In kintsugi philosophy, the damage does not diminish. It deepens. Restored bowls became more prized than unbroken ones as people embraced impermanence, incompleteness, and imperfection as beautiful. A pristine bowl, after all, carries no story.

What has strained, broken, and mended holds what perfection never will. Every crack pattern is singular. No two repairs look the same. The gold seams prove someone chose devotion over replacement, months over moments.

This bowl’s history includes its breaking. To hide that history would be to lie about what the object has survived. The restoration becomes proof that this particular bowl, this particular crack, deserved witnessing.

***

The kintsugi bowl rests on a low table. Golden seams catch the sunlight sneaking through the window.

It does not reveal how long the repair took. How much the process hurt. How many times the artisan wondered if the effort mattered. It sits steady. Unapologetically unique.

Nothing moves through life unbroken. Not you, not I, not the bowl. We are shaped by strain, marked by repair, held together by what we have survived.

This object tells a story about continuity and devotion. The moment when someone decided broken was precisely the opposite of worthless.

^{This publication is a space for exploration and reflection. Nothing in this email is medical, psychological, or therapeutic advice. These ideas are general insights on human behaviour, not treatment or diagnosis. Each reader’s situation is unique and deserves the right kind of support. If you are struggling or in crisis, please contact a licensed mental health professional.}