I have a black thumb. My plants die as fast as I can pot them. Here’s one on my deck right now. But when I look out my kitchen window as I sit writing at the table, I mostly just see the happy flash of red. Whatever has died behind it–well, I don’t focus on that. That little pop of red is a firecracker, a smile, a ruby, a surprise. And it’s beautiful. So I focus on that part of it. I am grateful that I am not a perfectionist. Perfectionists never seem very happy with anything, which must make it rather painful to live in our highly imperfect world.
I love hearing this about you. I can’t keep anything alive! On my deck is a happy red flower whose name escapes me. For some reason unknown to me, it continues to bloom. Perfection amidst imperfection.
We are kindred spirits, Margaret.
I used to have a black thumb too, but now I’m amazed at the small, beautiful garden I’ve been able to cultivate over the past few years. I even have basil plants growing from seeds that I harvested last year! I guess NOT being a perfectionist has given me lots of room to grow.
Lovely–sometimes bits of perfection emerge when we’re not trying to hard. What a beautiful lesson!
Elissa J. Hoole says
My black thumbs salute yours in imperfect solidarity. Can thumbs salute? They…waggle at your thumbs? That sounds weird. THEY GIVE YOU TWO BLACK THUMBS UP!
Hehehe–Black thumbs are hard to discuss gracefully, aren’t they?