Sometimes I think I see Perfection in something: a photograph, a story, a relationship, a lifestyle, someone’s skin… and I think “Why can’t I have that?” It seems that there’s nothing perfect in my life and sometimes that really gets me down.
An example of my imperfection: When I was little, I hugged a sleeping dog and now I have 4 scars on the left side of my face. I’m lucky, the emergency room doctors did a good job sewing up the tears and the scars are relatively small and subtle. But I hate them and they are the first things I see when I look in the mirror.
People tell me “I never noticed them before you pointed them out! Don’t get rid of them, they give you character!” I hate that too. Surely an imperfection that was painfully inflected on me doesn’t give my face character!
But consider a handmade product, like a garment, piece of furniture, or quilt. It is the small imperfections—the variations in color or pattern or whatnot—that makes those products unique and valuable. Maybe my face is like that.
When I really think about it I like my life this way. Those imperfections set me and my life apart from other people. They give it value, they allow room for improvement and space to grow, and they give prospective.
If everything was perfect there would be nothing to look at, be surprised by, work on, hope for, cry about, laugh at, be inspired by… and I could go on.
Without those things, who wants perfection?
(Well, I do. Go figure)
