One of my earliest memories is of May striking me with a wooden spoon as I tried to make myself as small as possible in a corner on the floor.
She ran what amounted to a "preschool" from her home, watching twenty or so children before regulations existed to prevent such arrangements.
She taught us nothing of value.
But I learned plenty in my time there:
That I didn't like being there.
That I wasn't very good at making friends.
That wooden spoons could be weapons, not just kitchen tools.
These lessons have persisted into middle age:
Large gatherings still make me uncomfortable.
My skill at social interactions is still below average.
And to this day, wooden spoons are absent from my kitchen drawers.
I have learned that what I once perceived as brokenness is simply the journey of a soul learning to navigate existence.
We navigate life carrying fragments from our past.
These fragments fracture our present as we keep reaching toward some sort of hopeful future.
Our memories are scattered like shards of glass catching light and creating a complex constellation of who we are.
These broken pieces are what makes us whole, wooden spoons and all.