Intentionally Imperfect (17x21 framed original)
There is something I find so beautiful about the “imperfections” of nature, and the correlations with us as humans. Each of us can find bits of ourselves that aren’t as lovely and perfect as we’d like them to be. But look at the broken fern: does she mourn a missing leaf? Does the burgundy flower weep at her torn petal? Look at the veins that wrap up your legs, don’t they look like the roots of a tree that peek up from the ground? The silhouette curves of your body, they are rolling hills and valleys soft with dew in the darkness. The freckles of your nose, constellations tossed across your face. The swirls of your fingertips, the bands of an agate. You were made imperfect, intentionally.
There is something I find so beautiful about the “imperfections” of nature, and the correlations with us as humans. Each of us can find bits of ourselves that aren’t as lovely and perfect as we’d like them to be. But look at the broken fern: does she mourn a missing leaf? Does the burgundy flower weep at her torn petal? Look at the veins that wrap up your legs, don’t they look like the roots of a tree that peek up from the ground? The silhouette curves of your body, they are rolling hills and valleys soft with dew in the darkness. The freckles of your nose, constellations tossed across your face. The swirls of your fingertips, the bands of an agate. You were made imperfect, intentionally.
There is something I find so beautiful about the “imperfections” of nature, and the correlations with us as humans. Each of us can find bits of ourselves that aren’t as lovely and perfect as we’d like them to be. But look at the broken fern: does she mourn a missing leaf? Does the burgundy flower weep at her torn petal? Look at the veins that wrap up your legs, don’t they look like the roots of a tree that peek up from the ground? The silhouette curves of your body, they are rolling hills and valleys soft with dew in the darkness. The freckles of your nose, constellations tossed across your face. The swirls of your fingertips, the bands of an agate. You were made imperfect, intentionally.