Why is it that the word that means “to shatter” is the same one that means “to rest”?
I typed that question down on my notes app a few nights ago. The next morning, I asked the same question to Billie, who is the designer I would work with the most at the office. She’s also a great artist. (Go check out Oh, Flamingo!)
So, I asked her, “Why is it that the word ‘break’ means ‘shatter’ and ‘rest’ at the same time?”
She explained to me that it’s because you need to break something into parts to create spaces in between. And those spaces are the breaks, the rests.
“Onga noh,” I responded. She was exactly right. The day, for example, is broken into parts to create lunch breaks, work breaks, meeting breaks in between.
But, digging deeper into the question, what does “break” mean in the context of a human being? I mean, a person can break his time and his activities into periods to create rests for himself, but that’s “break” in the context of time. What happens when the person himself breaks? Not his hours, not his work, but his own self.
“Break” in this sense no longer means to divide or split or snap into parts. Instead, this is the shattering, fracturing kind. How does that relate to “rest”?
Imagine a tall, slender, ceramic vase in the middle of an empty room. The room is still and so is the vase. It sits there, at the center of the room, resting.
Now, imagine that the room has walkways from all four sides, and people are rushing trying to get from one end to the other. The room is almost full. It’s loud and chaotic. The people are pushing and squeezing their way through. Do you feel that tension?
Finally imagine, if you can, that you are the vase itself. In the middle of the room, people rushing, no arms, no movement, you’re all clay. You are at rest, but you’re not exactly at rest, are you? How could you be? One slip from any person in the room and you tip over. Then you shatter.
This, I would say, is a depiction of a person trying to “keep it together.” We are all vulnerable and fragile, but we rarely show this side of ourselves. We tense up our muscles and keep a steady face, desperate to not let the emotions seep through our skin. No one can see us weak. No one can see us cry. No one can see us break.
But when that vase is knocked over and is shattered to pieces, what happens? Of course, there will be noise. Perhaps a loud boom. But almost instantly after, there will be silence. Even the crowd will be momentarily stunned. The tension, it would seem, has been released. Finally, there is rest.
I don’t mean this in the physical sense of course, but this is what breaking feels like. Vulnerability is scary. Losing is scary. But it’s a prerequisite to the rest we all so deeply crave for, but aren’t prepared to earn.
Breaking is about opening up. It’s also about breaking down and breaking character. It’s letting loose and losing control. It’s letting go and accepting that there is no other way but to do so.
Breaking is also an exhale. It’s closing your eyes despite the urge to want to see everything and know everything. It’s jumping in, or out, or off. It’s shooting your shot, or deciding not to. Its the dip.
It’s a release of tension. It’s the loud bang and the silence that follows.
I don’t write this to encourage people to be emotional and vunerable all the time. That wouldn’t be productive. The point is that we don’t have to appear strong and put together all the time. We don’t have to play it safe all the time either. We don’t have to wait until it’s too late before admitting to ourselves that we need a break, and that first, we need to break.