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One of my grandmother’s plates broke
It wasn’t just a plate—it was a piece of her.
The kind she used every Sunday, the kind that still smelled faintly of tea and old sunshine.

I held the broken pieces in my hands, my chest tight.
Throwing it away felt like throwing her away.

So instead, I sat down quietly and listened to the memories.

I cleaned every shard carefully, tracing the faded patterns she once loved.

The cracks weren’t flaws anymore—they were lines of time, proof of how long that plate had lived and how much it had seen.

Then an idea came to me.

I shaped the fragments into wings—light, delicate, almost alive.

Piece by piece, I turned the broken plate into a dragonfly.

A symbol of transformation.

Of life continuing in a different form.

When I finished, I hung it by the window.

…combined with old spoons and broken plates to create a decorative piece full of emotion and delicate beauty.

From the broken porcelain plates that once belonged to my grandmother,

I carefully cut and shaped the fragments into dragonfly wings—each wing carrying a different pattern: tiny purple blossoms, faded pink petals, warm red tones, and gentle shades of blue.

The natural cracks in the porcelain weren’t hidden; instead, they were preserved as marks of time and memory.

The dragonfly bodies were formed from old metal spoons—the slender handles became the bodies, while the curved spoon bowls added soft, elegant accents.

At the center of each dragonfly sits a round stone or glass gem in white, pink, or red, placed like a heart, binding the porcelain wings together with hand-twisted metal lines.

Arranged on a plate, the dragonflies appear to rest lightly, both fragile and resilient at once.

When light touches the glazed porcelain, their wings shimmer, transforming what were once useless shards into a meaningful decorative artwork.

This isn’t just recycling
It’s memory preserved,
love carefully mended,
and broken pieces that have learned how to fly.

Besides that, I didn’t stop with just dragonflies.

Using the remaining porcelain shards and old spoons, I began experimenting with other playful and meaningful shapes.

Some fragments naturally suggested butterflies, with softer, rounded wings.

Others became small flowers, their petals formed from curved pieces of china, centered with beads or polished stones.

A few sharper shards turned into abstract birds, mid-flight, their wings stretched as if catching the wind.

Each piece took shape slowly, guided by the patterns already printed on the broken plates.

I let the flowers, leaves, and colors decide what they wanted to become, instead of forcing them into perfect symmetry.

The old spoons bent and twisted into stems, tails, or gentle curves, giving each creation a sense of movement.

What started as a single broken plate grew into a small collection of handmade decorations, all different, all imperfect, yet deeply connected.

Every figure carries a piece of the past, transformed into something new—proof that even what seems broken beyond repair can still be reshaped into beauty, memory, and quiet joy.