Don't Be Too Careful

A poem in defense of damage

When I was moving into my first apartment, I bought some dishes at a church rummage sale. They were stacked in a cardboard box, and were a pretty dark green with a bit of white trim around the edge. It was the color that sold me. I have a thing for green. Even my wedding dress was green. And also the price: $12 for the whole box. Somebody had let go of them after long use. They were far from perfect, with a few chips and cracks here and there, but they were serviceable and they moved with me from apartment to apartment, across the country and back again.

One day, maybe four years after I’d purchased them, I invited an old friend over for lunch at my new apartment. My boyfriend-soon-to-be-husband and I had just moved back to my home state. Miriam was a mentor of sorts to me, kind of a foster grandmother after I lost my only remaining grandparent at age twelve. I went to the same college she did because, without a lot of guidance at home, I figured it couldn’t be all bad if she turned out the way she did. She was smart and outspoken; blunt but still kind. She was a passionate letter writer, quick to send her clear and well organized thoughts to the local paper, and I still think of her every time I write a letter to the editor.

We didn’t have a lot of furniture in our new place but we had a table and four chairs. I’d taken some care setting the table, digging around to find matching silverware in our drawer of odds and ends. And when Miriam walked in and put up her hands and exclaimed, “Oh, Tara!” I assumed she was thinking how grown-up my table looked. But then she said, “You have my dishes!” I realized that for four years I’d been carefully wrapping and unwrapping, packing and unpacking Miriam’s first set of dishes that she’d received as a wedding present. They’d moved from state to state, and home to home with her for decades, and now, without even knowing it, I’d chosen them for my own.   

Miriam has been gone nearly ten years now and those dishes are still with me, although there are only five dinner plates left and one of the bowls has a dangerous crack. I could pack them away somewhere safe, but I want to keep using them, even if that means eventually losing them all. They make me think of her. That’s their real value, as long as it lasts.

Imperfect
	-for my husband who sometimes breaks things

There ought to be a special prayer 
of thanks for the person who first 
scratches the table, chips the china, 
breaks a glass and makes an even number odd

We should make an offering of 
gratitude to the soul who marks the paint, 
and scars the finish, dents the trim boards 
so that we don’t have to

The new, the perfect, the unmarred 
they are a burden, weighed down
with expectations that perfection 
is a worthy state, one to be preserved

The first dent, the first ding, 
the first stain, or pulled thread
in the upholstery, they free us, 
they unburden our hearts

When objects cease to be perfect 
only then do they really become a part 
of our lives, only then can we begin 
to live with them instead of around them

I do not believe we hold hands 
as much across an unscratched table, 
or slouch so comfortably together 
on a too pristine sofa

An easy chair is not easy until it has 
a small stain, or the leather is a bit scuffed 
Such markings may be 
the surest proof of angels 

Blessings on you, who 
without malice or intent, 
drips a spot of red wine on the rug, 
or rubs chain grease on the towel

The gift of imperfection is 
a generous one. Flaws are forgiveness, 
and damage is divine. For, in them, we are 
freed to love less carefully

What I’m Reading This Week:

• After my kids returned to college following Thanksgiving I was in need of some distraction. Lucky for me a great big, thick volume of Jane Kenyon’s poems had turned up on the hold shelf at the library.

  

  I wanted to share a link to “After an Early Frost,” but I couldn’t find it anywhere. So instead, here’s “Trouble with Math in a One Room Country School.” You’re welcome.

• I’m also reading North Woods, by Daniel Mason, another book that showed up on the hold shelf.

  

  I had forgotten about requesting it and honestly, couldn’t remember why I had. It’s getting a lot of attention and I’ve had a run recently of reading much-touted books that end up disappointing me. I’ll admit it, I had a bad attitude. What a pleasant surprise! I’m loving this one. It’s all about an old house in the hills of Western Massachusetts and the inhabitants who move through it over many years. I’m not quite done with it yet, but unless it really goes off a cliff in the last thirty pages, it may be my favorite book of the year.

Here on Substack I’ve stumbled upon a few writers in the last couple of weeks whose work is really hitting the mark for me. You how you click a random link in Notes and the next thing you know you’ve lost an hour reading everything that person has ever posted? That’s been me.

• Lisa Renee
  ’s Ten Vignettes was such a perfect distillation of the way my midlife brain is working lately. Scattered one moment, hyper-focused the next; Prickly yet sentimental; Craving adventure but feeling pretty damn comfortable at home. It’s a roller coaster, and Lisa Renee’s thoughtful and nuanced writing is helping me feel like I’m not riding alone.

• Marc Typo
  ’s wonderful
  Raising Myles
  , on the other hand, has been transporting me out of midlife and back to the early days of love, marriage, and kids. Reading his letters to his son has been really moving. His last two posts about meeting his wife and falling in love are beautiful and warm and funny. And they have reminded me of the importance of family stories.

• Mary Roblyn
  at
  Writer, interrupted
  is writing about the loss of her husband and her return to writing. Her piece this week about reclaiming music in her life is inspiring. I told her I was cheering for her when she solved the puzzle. Truth is, I’m cheering for her all the time. Her writing is brave and honest, and she manages to find humor amidst tragedy, which is a super power, in my opinion.

Happy Reading!