The other day, I actually got to our local farmer's market right at 11:00AM, when it opens. It was my first time to be there for the opening bell. I'm ususally a late comer, like about 30 minutes before closing which doesn't always equate to the pick of the litter. I found on this day, the benefit of being early to the market is that my favorite stall, Five Acre Farm from Whidby Island has fresh eggs. The real, happy chicken, happy egg kinda eggs. So, I happily put one dozen eggs in my way cool go to market basket
Living in the city in an urban life, I see eggs usually just one way. I see them the way they come in the supermarket. I have been programed that a dozen eggs is perfectly shaped and sized and graded and boxed and sold in a mass produced way. When I arrived home, I opened the box of eggs from the Farmer's Market. What struck me was the beauty and the perfection of imperfection. This dozen eggs was totally imperfect compared to what I would find in the supermarket. They were different shapes and sizes and different colors. Some had perfect texture and some didn't. There was no grading system like Grade A or extra large - nothing the same as what has been programed into my mind regarding eggs, except they were recognizably eggs.
This gave my a bit of a pause. It occured to me that maybe I had forgotten the beauty of the imperfect? So, in what other things imperfect am I missing the perfect? people/family, art, myself, my life.. its really an endless list. All of these are perfect in their own unique imperfect way - just like my dozen of farm fresh eggs. Something to think about, anyway.