I’ve always loved window sills. The window sill above the kitchen sink in the home where I grew up was always filled with little bits of this and that, kinda like my idea boards in the studio, now. They didn’t mean much,taken one piece at a time, but as an arrangement framed by the painted wooden moldings of the window they told a little story about that moment in that time, in that place, with those people.
Right now, my kitchen sill holds a teapot lid, split in half, resting like an odd cross-section homage to all my early morning tea sipping this winter. One day the lid just cracked in two as I set it down over the hot water in the pot. I don’t know what to do with the broken lid and for some reason the pieces strike me as lovely. I think I’ll leave them there for awhile and mull it over. I keep thinking they should depress me, given the fact they stand for something that fell apart, but instead, they seem lovely, hopeful, informative, revealing… It’s something about the simple, vulnerable honesty of being broken. The structural integrity (authenticity) to remain clearly you while split in two.
For those of you who do find these two sad, here’s another window sill still life from last July. Cheerful and bright, the marching cherry tomatoes ought to snap you out of any February funk you find yourself in, at least for a minute or two. Don’t worry, this year has a July of its own and it will be here before we know it.