Let me tell you a Wabi Sabi story
. . . embracing the imperfect, grokking its beauty . . .
I went to the beach with my ten-year-old son and his friend. As we walked to the pier they splashed in and out of the waves as I scanned the sand for spirit stones (and spirit shells).
I would pick up a promising stone, then several, sometimes tossing an earlier one back. What I realized after a time was that I was tossing the perfectly smooth ones back. The ones with holes or irregularities were the ones that intrigued me the most.
It was similar to that time in New York City when, in astonishment, I discovered I preferred flawed women. They had the best stories to tell.