So maybe the path isn’t about arriving somewhere flawless. Maybe it’s about walking, stumbling, sitting down and rising again.

 

By George Cassidy Payne

 

“The crack is where the light gets out.”

— Zen Proverb (often attributed to Leonard Cohen’s variation, rooted in older teachings)

“Barn’s burnt down—now I can see the moon.”
— Mizuta Masahide, 17th-century Zen poet

We live in a world addicted to polish.

A world that says healing should be fast, that growth should be linear and that wholeness is something you finally achieve, then post about. But the truth is far messier, and far more beautiful. Wholeness isn’t about becoming flawless. It’s about learning to live fully, honestly, and tenderly in the presence of our cracks.

In Buddhist thought, everything is impermanent, and everything is interdependent. Life doesn’t move in straight lines; it flows, unravels, falls apart and begins again.

Suffering isn’t a punishment.

It’s part of the human curriculum. Sometimes, the moments we spend falling apart are also the moments when we are most deeply awake.

For years, I was ashamed of the cracks in my own life.

Addiction shattered much of what I thought made me whole. I fought hard to repair the surface, to mask the damage, to return to some imagined version of myself. But recovering taught me something radical: you don’t go back. You don’t undo the breaking. You live with it. You learn from it.

You soften into it.

Over time, the very things I once ran from, my shame, my relapses, my rawness, became the gateways to something else: humility. Empathy. Presence. These cracks let something in—not from above, but from within. A sense of spaciousness. A deeper awareness. A recognition that the pain I carried was not mine alone.

There’s a Japanese art form called kintsugi—the practice of repairing broken pottery with gold. The idea isn’t to hide the fracture but to honor it. The break becomes part of the story, not a detour from it. In the same way, wabi-sabi teaches us to see beauty in what is worn, weathered, and unfinished.

This isn’t just aesthetics, it’s a philosophy of life. One that aligns deeply with Buddhist practice: to let go of perfection, to embrace impermanence, to see clearly and compassionately.

When we sit in meditation, we’re not trying to become something new.

We’re practicing being with what is. Breath by breath, we return. To this moment. To this body. To this flickering, fractured now. The path isn’t toward perfection, but toward awareness. And in awareness, transformation begins.

Another Japanese concept, kaizen, speaks to slow, steady progress. In spiritual terms, that means change doesn’t erupt in grand awakenings; it unfolds through daily effort. Through compassion. Through showing up. Buddhism doesn’t ask us to be perfect. It invites us to practice. To lean into each moment, again and again, with patience and care.

And that’s what many of us need right now—not more pressure to perform, but permission to be gentle. Permission to be human. To admit: no one has done this before. Not like this. Not on this day. Even someone who’s 114 years old has never been 114 before. We’re all new here. And that realization, that beginner’s mind, is sacred.

Pain doesn’t need to be explained away or transcended.

It needs to be met. Held. Witnessed. Sometimes, the cracking open is what allows a deeper awareness to emerge. Like a seed in the dark, bursting apart before it can sprout, growth often begins in discomfort.

So maybe the path isn’t about arriving somewhere flawless. Maybe it’s about walking, stumbling, sitting down and rising again. It’s about befriending our own impermanence. Trusting that nothing is wasted. That even our breaking carries wisdom. That healing doesn’t mean erasing the scar, but living from the deeper truth it reveals.

We are not here to be perfect. We are here to wake up. To become intimate with our own suffering. To recognize our interconnection. And to live with compassion, for ourselves, for others, for this beautiful, breaking world.

In the cracks, we find connection. In the imperfections, we glimpse reality. And in the art of becoming, we are not alone.

We are practicing together.

 

Meditation: Sitting with the Crack

Sit in a quiet space. Close your eyes.
Breathe in through your nose, slowly and deeply.
Exhale gently through your mouth.

As you inhale, say silently:
“I welcome what is.”
As you exhale, say silently:
“I release the need to be whole.”

Let the breath become your companion.
If thoughts arise, smile at them like old friends.

Picture a cracked bowl in your hands, the gold threads running through its seams.
This bowl is you.
This bowl is everyone.

Rest in that awareness for a few moments.
When you’re ready, open your eyes.
Carry this tenderness into the world.

 

George Cassidy Payne is a poet, freelance journalist, and suicide prevention counselor based in Rochester, NY. A former philosophy professor and community organizer, his work explores the intersections of trauma, healing, mindfulness, and the radical beauty of impermanence. His writing has appeared in both local and national outlets, and he brings a deep compassion to every cracked-open conversation.

 

 

Photo: Pixabay

Editor: Dana Gornall

 

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