Western culture loves perfection. Anything that’s imperfect is rejected or at least offered at a steep discount. When someone asks about a newborn baby, you might hear the cliche, “He has all his fingers and toes.”
In our culture of mass production, we judge quality by how perfectly the widgets pressed out of industrial machinery match each other. It doesn’t matter how boring or soulless or poorly designed a thing is. It’s a quality item if it matches its specifications.
I grew up steeped in that culture of perfection, but the more of life that I experience, the more I’ve found beauty in a kind of imperfection that comes only from brokenness.

Normal days often turn to terror when you live with a narcissist
Doing it for the children? No, they’re doing it for the TV cameras
Briefly: Sufjan Stevens album always evokes old feelings about my mother
In other news, donations keep pouring in to feed the monkeys
THE McELROY ZOO: Meet Anne, the cat who’d love to live in a shoe
More dependence ahead now that half of households get U.S. checks
Christmas looks different now, but I still see joy with eyes of a child
Confessing my ego’s old desires reveals hidden fears of my past
Why is it ‘isolationism’ to oppose killing those who didn’t attack us?