If perfection is in the eye of the beholder, imperfection is also, right?
I love this concept although I confess, I don't always live it.
I'm so programmed by others on what is "pleasing", it's often necessary
to pause and absorb what I'm experiencing whether it be the
visual beauty of a tiny vignette in the woods, or the
wabi sabi of a rumpled, lived-in room. I'm trained so
well toward neat and orderly; a loved one's
used socks, even if beautifully made, lying on the rug
does not invoke strong pleasure. Not yet, anyway.
kastilwell
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