Walking down the aisles of Portland's Saturday Market, I spotted some interesting pottery and stopped to have a look. There was a shelf behind all of the displayed pottery that my eye was immediately drawn to. It was hidden in the back, out of view from the main aisle.
I began picking up the pieces, thinking they were some of the most beautiful and unique jars and mugs and bowls I had ever seen. Then I noticed the clearance sticker. Uh-oh. Something must be wrong with them.
"What's wrong with these?"
"Oh these are the imperfects," he told me. "The color didn't turn out the way it was supposed to after being fired in the kiln. They were supposed to turn these blues and greens, but instead turned red and gray."
"But there is nothing wrong with them?"
"No, they just didn't turn out the way they were supposed to."
Thinking back on this small interaction, this moment was kind of defining for me.
I identify with that pottery.
I've always strived to be perfect. It's something I write about often, because for many years it's what I thought defined me. The perfect girl, the perfect piece of pottery. No flaws. Just the right colors. Just the right design. That's what I wanted.
Looking back now, I realize that there was something deeper drawing me to that pottery.
I'm not perfect. I'm flawed.
Through this journey called life, my colors have changed.
They didn't turn out the way I thought they should, or would, or could have.
The colors aren't wrong though.
In the eyes of the right person, they could be the most beautiful or the most unique.
In the eyes of the right person, they have more value than all of the "perfect" pieces.
The piece of pottery went through the fire.
It didn't come out as expected.
It didn't live up to the "perfect" expectations.
But in my eyes, it came out better.
The colors may have changed...
But the colors are me and that's all that matters.
