Lessons of a Broken Flute

for all the broken flutes in the world

Be like a hollow reed
so that the breath of God
may pass through you
and bring music to the world.

-Rumi

I’ve been thinking about bamboo lately—how often we overlook it.

In the U.S. and Europe, people see it as exotic, which it is. Some consider it an invasive weed that spreads uncontrollably and damages structures, which it can. Where I live, it’s rightly considered a fire hazard.

Yet bamboo is strong. Hollowed out and treated with care, it can become a flute that sings with haunting beauty. But a bamboo flute is also fragile. Even with proper care, a sudden shift in humidity can cause it to split.

A few days ago, Kira, a dear friend and fantastic musician, mentioned that she had a flute that split. I told her I’d look at it and see if it could be repaired. It was a humble instrument made by a friend of hers who was experimenting with the flute maker craft. The flute was split so badly that I doubted it could be repaired, but she wanted to keep it as a token of his effort. I decided to try.

At first glance, I thought it was… well, homely. Rough, unfinished—clearly the work of a beginner. I own many beautiful bamboo flutes, some crafted by masters of the art. Compared to them, this one seemed beyond saving. I figured the best I could do was force it back into shape and glue it together. But when I tried, it split again.

Still, I pressed on with no real hope for anything remarkable. What I assumed would be a quick project became an all-day labor. Glue and clamp, check for gaps, reglue, and clamp again. It sounded good, but I knew it could be better. The edges where the breaks had been mended weren’t even, so I sanded. First with 220 grit, then 320, then 400, and finally 600. With each step, the bamboo changed. A warmth emerged, a quiet glow from within. Most importantly, the flute gained a resonant sound it didn’t have before it was mended.

Then came hours of sealing, layering oil, and sanding between each coat. The flute became beautiful—but still unfinished. To keep it from splitting again, I wrapped it in fine string in three places. Only then was it truly complete. And when I played it, its voice was pure, clear, and unexpectedly full of life.

Rumi understood this well when he wrote:

"Listen to the reed flute, how it tells a tale,
Complaining of separation.
Ever since they cut me from the reed bed,
My lament has caused men and women to weep."

A flute only sings because it is hollow. A heart only deepens when it has been opened.

Years ago, at the beginning of my acupuncture practice, I took a marketing class. One of the hardest exercises was crafting an "elevator speech"—a way to explain what I do in the time it takes for an elevator ride. I never quite managed it.

This morning, in meditation, I realized that now I can.

I take what is broken and help it become whole. I have the gift, the tools, and the skill to help people—hurting, cracked, or worn out—become the best version of themselves, strong and beautiful.

That is what I do.

Here’s your floor.

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A Note from a Reader

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Until next time.