Perfectly imperfect

I’m not perfect, not even close, and in all honestly, I’m not even aiming for it. (Please don’t let my husband read this!)

My father wished with all of his heart for me to be detail-oriented, a great cleaner, punctual to a fault, and not even a tiny bit messy. My mom died when I was 12 and it was a rough road for a few years until he married my wonderful stepmother, Eva, who took over the cleaning, cooking and ironing that I had been doing for several years. Long story short, those traits were never something that I embraced. I love all things a bit left of center, wonky, well-worn, loved and perfectly imperfect.

And I don’t strive for perfect in my art, either. Much the opposite, actually. I used to paint very tight and realistically and have been on a long journey towards loose, intuitive and spontaneous. I love the bits that are happy accidents, where you can absolutely tell it was made by hand and with love. The journey to perfectly imperfect is also imperfect and that gives me space to be okay with that. If I don’t love my “happy accidents” at least I can learn from them.

Even as I am writing this post, I can’t sit at my computer and type what I am thinking, I need to write it out by hand—that’s the only way thoughts flow from me…in a wonderful imperfect mess. That’s where the moments are when something is a complete messy middle and I just need to have the faith that something beautiful is about to happen…

Do you embrace your own perfectly imperfect?