Chips are Okay Now

I was scrubbing dishes this morning and noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Some of our plates are chipped. I also noticed stains on plates that had been a bit harder used.

A younger me would have wanted new dishes. Something shiny. Unmarked. Closer to fine.

Today, I'm okay with it. In God's cupboard I am a chipped dish.

Like the things in the drainer beside me, parts of me have not held their color well. Reapplying the color is a temporary fix. The base material is what it really is. Happily, I am free to experiment with all sorts of shades and hues if I want to. My head is now another palette for self-expression.

Other parts of me are now lined. In the mirror, my image is gradually moving to the bottom of the frame. It's just a little distorted. Like the window panes in an old building. Much as I would like to deny it or defy it, I am wearing marks similar to those that add character to things I like.

Let's be candid. I admire a fancy purse or briefcase made of unblemished leather. Items that cost hundreds of dollars and give the impression of prosperity and competence. But I prefer an old set of saddle bags scratched by brush, spotted by rain, and carefully oiled so they are supple enough to be useful.

That's the key. My values have changed. I used to value the new. I still like it. But which would you rather wear if you know nobody is looking? New jeans--slightly stiff and perhaps a bit snug, or old jeans--softened denim that gives your legs a happy hug as they slide on, letting you know they're ready for any adventure you have planned for the day?

And on that day--the day nobody's looking--would you be wearing new shoes or old shoes? Or even no shoes?

I'm finding I prefer older things well made and shaped by use to their intended purpose. Like me.