Holding on

It’s interesting what we hang onto.

I am not much of a collector. I’ve never been one to amass scrapbooks or photo albums so it surprised me when I reached into the closet the other day for a towel and found one old and full of holes. I looked at it for a moment before returning it and choosing another of respectable shape.

Later, I thought about the towel. What was it that prevented me from tossing it into the rag bin at that moment? I knew the answer. It was the last relic from a set of towels bought for our first home. As silly as it sounds now, I spent considerable time agonizing over the choice of color and how it felt in my hands. It needed to be the perfect towel set, because we were beginning our perfect lives.

Perfection. Isn’t that what we are all taught to strive for? Perfect home, perfect lives, perfect kids. Perfection. Nothing less.

For a moment or two I held in my hand one of the very few remaining items from the year of those lofty ideals. And was full of holes, mocking the naivety of my younger mind.

Suffice to say I didn’t achieve any of the “perfection” I’d hoped for. Few people do. But with maturity I hope I’ve achieved in its place an appreciation for the exquisite beauty of the perfectly imperfect that lives and breaths within my home. 

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