Perfectly imperfect me...

A while ago, I took a friend with me to help me mat and frame a photo I had taken in our garden. The subject was this amazing pink flower, all lacy and laden with morning dew, sparkling in the sunlight, with rosy buds in shadow beyond, just a jewel of nature. I called it "Fresh", and I was proud of it. Until my friend pointed out that there were little specks of detritus here and there. And I was devastated. She was right. You had to kind of squint to see them, but there were these tiny specks of stuff, three of them, right on my work of art. I framed it up, anyway, and actually displayed it in an art show, because it is still an amazing photograph. And that became my trademark, the notion that nothing is perfect, imperfection reigns supreme. I have a photo of some plums, round, red, just bursting with sweetness. A couple of the leaves are torn, and there is this spider web between the fruits with an itty bitty blossom caught in it. And my favorite Wild Rose picture has an ant on one of the petals. I am more likely to be disappointed if nothing intrudes on my vision when I take photos now. I expect imperfection to rise up and impose itself at any moment, all the time. It is a much more realistic way to live my life, which has been rife with pimples, scratches and bruises, lumps and bumps and jellyrolls. And I am pretty sure that is never going to change.