My kitchen table (along with many other items of furniture in my cottage) is pock marked, ringed, stained. It has lived. Each blemish tells a story, and every mark is a memory. The dinner parties that went on until 4am; the mascara on pillowcases when you couldn’t be bothered to take your make-up off; the tea spots on sofas; the freshly painted walls the children attacked with crayons…
I’m a firm believer in everyday stains. Life is imperfect, things don’t stay pristine, and surfaces get stained, which to me simply means they have become part of the household, are used and loved, and have seen many good times!
Physical appearance changes and evolves during a lifetime, as does the character of any natural fibre – in the fabric of life, not one person comes out unblemished. But as a society we seem to be afraid of ageing, of asymmetry, of imperfection, and I’m not sure why. Age brings a sophisticated sagacity. I’m ageing disgracefully, and enjoying every minute – my hair is becoming greyer by the day, my forehead is well and truly wrinkled, and my crow’s feet are apparent, but I’m not hiding it. I’m embracing it, and I’m proud of the path that’s led me to this point.
So embrace imperfection and go with the flaw. A spillage or four really doesn’t matter.
