The rain woke me up early this morning, clicking like an impatient finger-tapper at my window. The wind whistled around the window frame, trying to wrench it open and come inside where it was warm and dry. As the early morning traffic increased, the cars swooshed by on their way to work and school and life. The light came slowly, dimmed by the heavy clouds.
For a long time, I stayed in bed and listened, relaxing, enjoying the sounds, thinking. Emily Freeman, who writes the blog, "Chatting at the Sky," has been writing a series about creating art, about creating beauty, about accepting the imperfections in ourselves and the art we produce. As my mind wandered over thoughts this morning, I remembered (again-some of these lessons I am always learning and re-learning) that the beauty of each day is not necessarily in professional productivity. Cooking a meal to enjoy together with family, picking up the piles on the floor (the same ones that appeared there yesterday), folding the laundry, writing a short card to a distant granddaughter, exercising and laughing together: these things are the beautiful art of life. I want my art to be formal, professional, productive, "perfect." It isn't. Instead, I realized how much art I do create each day in the every-day-ordinariness.
By the time I hopped out of bed, the rain had stopped, but the wind still wanted to come inside. The cars splashed by on the highway, their headlights reflecting ahead of them on the wet pavement. I can look at the day ahead, peaceful and confident in the work I do, not apologizing for imperfections, but accepting them in myself and others.