Today I thought of a good friend, newly made, who offered this wisdom when he read that I intended to blog: "perfection is an illusion." He knew I would try to write perfect posts and advised instead that I write from the heart.
Neurons flashed. Links were made. I was back at Winchester cathedral, my mind's eye on the floor tiles I had photographed the day before my walk began. They caught my attention then. Now I know why. Their beauty is in their imperfection.
I doubt these tiles are original. If they were, they would be 922 years old. Perhaps they are centuries old replacements, or recent replicas marred to look like those they replaced. What would those tiles tell me if they were perfect? Nothing. They would not tell me of the worshippers, penitents, tourists, and pilgrims, families and solo travelers, wanderers and wonderers, many thousands of them scuffing their way across those tiles or their predecessors in situ, over many hundreds of years. They would not tell me of marriages and births celebrated, or of the deceased remembered. The imperfections give these tiles character, tell of their history, and mark them unique. They are special because they are imperfect.
Everyone and everything each of us holds dearest in this world is imperfect in some way. They are what they are to us because of their imperfections, and often, the imperfections themselves are what we cherish most.
Thank you my friend for reminding me.
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