Everywhere I look, something needs fixing, cleaning, organizing. Weeds in the garden, dust balls under the table, papers on my desk. So, I start in the kitchen, down on my knees with a bucket and sponge, finding cat toys and dried-up broccoli and pretzels. Lots of pretzels.
But finally, the old hardwood floor shines, really shines—for about an hour. By suppertime, I can already see a footprint in the doorway. Mine! I bang the bucket around on my way to the basement and go pull weeds.
No matter how hard I try, imperfections win, hands down. Dirty hands. So here’s my question: is there a way to celebrate imperfections as proof of being alive in this complex, imperfect world? As proof that I belong here, that everybody belongs, come as we are, imperfect.
It is a kind of solace to know we’re all struggling to make sense of, to make peace with, make a difference in the midst of so much that is ugly, hurtful, wrong. Imperfect as we are, we keep muddling through, recycling cans and bottles and grief. We even apologize, sometimes, for the pain we’ve caused.
So I’m here again, on my knees with a sponge trying to make some minor improvements, grateful for the privilege. The responsibility.