Picked up the kids from school and went straight to the beach today. We walked along the shore and collected sea shells.The perfect ones really are a tangible and magical piece of Mother Nature.
Those are the ones I was gravitated toward as a child.
But the imperfect ones are where it’s at and those are the ones I love more as I edge deeper into middle age.
They have cracks and holes and fractures.
They have stories, battle wounds, uneven edges and lay on the exact same sand as the impeccable ones.
They look like they have been through some shit and I relate hard to these little masterpieces.
Just like those shells, real life isn’t perfect. It’s full of challenges, road blocks and waves that will knock you right on your ass. But every little imperfection leaves a scar to serve as proof that you picked yourself up after every gut punch and kept going.
The funky looking shells are spectacular and unique with a dash of misfit and I’m all about it.
