I have a large worn, brown spot on a little hill in my yard. It has been created by the kids next door and their new obsession with baseball. My little hill, it seems, is a perfect home base. I freaking love that spot. It is evidence of play and dirt and triumph. I freaking love that spot in the sea of green lawn. It is the perfect mess of well-lived days.
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Many years ago, I bought an old rocker. It is well worn on the sides; creaky and wide. Whenever I sit in it, I put my hands on the worn spots and rock away. CREAK CREAK CREAK. I would never refinish it. I would never change the screws. That rocker brings me peace. It has the mojo of an object well-loved.
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I have a belly cut in half by a long scar and covered in stretch marks. I would considerate it "that part" on my body best left to itself, out of the light of day. But lately, I have been thinking, that belly brought me my children, I survived and thrived after the big scar incident, and my belly is rotund from the abundance I have been blessed with to date. (Hot damn. I think I love that belly.)
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A dear friend and I were wandering in a store last weekend and happened upon a sign.
"Life doesn't have to be perfect to be wonderful."
What a lovely lesson.
I have decided.
I don't want to miss all the wonderful moments
waiting for the perfect moments.
( In this world, there are far too many moments that are sadly neither.)
I want to awkwardly dance to great music and laugh as I lose at pool!
Luckie me-
Life doesn't have to be perfect to be wonderful.
Luckie me-wonderful imperfections abound.
