Real

I love my hardwood floors. They are scratched, discolored, and coming apart between the planks. Dirt from every person who has lived here has settled between the boards. They are strong, steady, and they creak. They are a far cry from the carefully picked out, color matching, decorator magazine styled linoleoum we picked out in our house in Ga. They are much more real. I love the scratches. The cracks in the wood are beautiful in a way thatperfection never can be. The wood looks scarred and comforts my soul. I no longer want pretty, perfect people and objects in my life. I’m drawn to the broken, the beautiful, the real. My beat up dresser, the deep turquiouse hand me down with the metal drawers makes me happier than any new piece out of the latest Pottery Barn catalogue. The rough, bumpy roads that drove me crazy when we moved up bring a smile to my face. My jeans all have holes in the knees, my boots are coated with mud. My life is a jumbled up mix of happy moments and tears. We yell, we cry, we argue, we live. In the mess of life, in the ugliness, I have learned what is truly beautiful.

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