John and I share an office. His desk faces one wall, and mine is by the window. We often work separately, absorbed in our tasks. The other day an elderly woman walked in through the open door. Older, but not so much that she has stopped driving.
"Your pictures are crooked." She was alluding to the family photographs. They chronicle trips to the beach, and times spent laughing together. But she was correct. The frames are askew.
"And your plant is almost dead." There is indeed a pot with an unknown sample of vegetation on top of the filing cabinet. I have not adopted it, and never remember to give it water.
"Actually it is better than it was. It used to be completely dead," John told her.
She was not amused. The conversation limped along, she mentioning how long it has been since her husband died, and how hard it is to go on without him. Clearly she had no where to be.
She stood up to leave.
"The next time I come those pictures better be straight."
Or what?
I felt no animosity toward her, only empathy. The thing is, she was in the habit of seeing what is wrong, and completely missed what is beautiful. There are three quilts on the chairs next to me. Quilts I might add that are lovely patterns with gorgeous colors. It brings me joy to look at them. She did not think to ask about the marvelous people in the pictures, the children who light up my life like fireworks. I could have told her a few stories about them.
But she was right. Those imperfections exist.
Finding what is wrong will keep you busy. There will never be a lack of mistakes. But what does that misdirection rob us of?
