Last night I broke my absolutely favorite, hand-made ceramic mug. It was a great shape, fit my hand perfectly, and was a lovely shade of grayish brown accented by a forest green. I knocked it off the shelf while getting other, much less valuable, mugs down to take to work. I just said, "no no no I am so sad" as I looked at its shattered remains.
And then I thought, "really?" It's a mug. An object. Am I that careful with my children? How many times have my words broken them? In the circumstances, things mean very little. People mean everything.
Once again, perspective jumps in to save the day, and my composure.
I still loved that mug, though. :(
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