Somewhere along my journey, I was made aware of 

a particular culture’s artistic choice and practice

    to always leave a tiny, hidden flaw,

an imperfection,

     in whatever it was they were creating.

It was a reminder of the truth: seeking perfection is vanity, not art. Not life.

True to my nature, I turned this truth and made it all about me . . .

. . . as I instantly imagined myself as one of those ornate, standalone vases in a museum, about midriff tall, along a long corridor. The number of imperfections I had would’ve been far too numerous not to notice. So, I have no clue what I was doing there. I suppose the wonder would be, as people come by all these years later, that I’d hung together at all. No small wonder that.

In my brokenness, you still see my beauty.

     I might just be feeling the same about you.

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