I live in a broken jar. My essence, usually contained comfortably within the confines of this jar, is slowly leaking away. I am weakened by this faulty jar, but it is my home. It is where I feel I most belong.
I am not alone in this jar. I share this sense of belonging with those who occupy this space with me. It is this feeling of community, of kinship, that reminds me why I choose to live in this jar.
Sadly, my confederates contribute occasionally to the cracks in the jar. At times, they do their damage from the inside because they long to be elsewhere. They no longer feel at home in the jar, and in their struggle to redefine themselves, they injure those of us who are strong in our convictions and comfortable in our home. This is not the fault of the jar; the jar is the same as it always has been. It is because of the composition of the population within the jar that drives some to seek egress.
Other times, those who damage the jar from the inside only endeavor to find the furthest extent of the jar. They sometimes seek too fervently, and they ricochet off the walls of the jar. They are jolted by these limits, and often need time to come to grips with the fact that the jar does have walls, and can only go so far. Some assent to these limitations, while others leave.
The interior of my jar is turbulent, but that turbulence is not the only disturbance to my home. I hear voices from outside my jar. They say, "This jar is broken. Is there a better jar to find?" Others are more aggressive. They seek to destroy the jar out of anger or frustration. "This jar no longer serves a valuable purpose if it is even slightly broken," they shout. "Let us destroy it altogether, and use some of the pieces to make a new jar."
These voices trouble me, but they do not shake my assurance that this jar in which I live is still valuable, and that it still has a purpose. I know in my heart that being inside the broken jar only makes my awareness of its cracks that much more acute. I know where the weaknesses are. I do what I can to repair those cracks from the inside, because it is injurious to me to let them remain. It would be equally injurious to me to listen to those angry voices who clamor for the jar's destruction. This would leave me without a home, and for all the troubles my home faces, it is still my home.
I live in a broken jar. It is an old jar, and it has seen many trials. It has been through quite a bit, and while it has shown that it is vulnerable, it remains. I trust that the jar can be repaired, because I know that my strength is not the only force seeking to repair it. Others join me, even as opposing forces try to rebuff my attempts. They do not understand that the cracks in my jar sadden me, and anger me, and frustrate me as well. But this jar is my home. It is where I belong.