BROKEN WINGS; Musings on Beauty and Perfection


Is there really a standard of beauty or perfection? Is there really a set of criteria that can be used to measure something as subjective as the appearance of a thing? 
I personally believe that perfection is a commercial concept based on the standardization of beauty. Yet in truth, beauty cannot be defined by nor confined to a set of criteria. It is numinous, mysterious beyond definition and utterly fluid. It can mean anything at any time to different people. And the idea that something or someone should be excluded from accepted standards is certainly something that should give us a reason to pause. 
This pause will help us truly meet the fullness of the people and circumstances we encounter at every given time. Instead of pre-judging our experiences or people, we meet them with a clean slate and fully experience them in the moment we meet them.
Like life, beauty is an inner illumination that comes from the “aliveness”of a thing. That which is here, present, in form and in appearance is beautiful. Everything that is here has it’s own beauty, even a butterfly with broken wings. We will only see this when we look without judging or holding on to predetermined standards.❤❤❤





When I read your poems
I saw in them all my hopes

All the dreams for my future

Were in every line

I knew your words

For they were mine

Familiar and sweet

Yet like the desert

I thirst and long for all you wrote

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Listen to my signs

And hear the words in my tears

They speak of my hopes

For a love beyond these five senses

As these jewelled streams dispenses

Don’t just see the spectacle

Of these tantrum throes

Or label me querulous

 A gust of wind that blows

For no apparent reason

But to stir up dust

To you I simply a woman


But this simple village girl

Without a crust of fine learning

Is native to a tribe

Prolific in reading the signs

And deciphering secret meanings

 Looking at the morning sky

And making predictions of rain

Yet going to the stream for water

This thirst is not for the river

But for the conversation along the way

Listen to my signs

And hear the words in my tears

Every smidgen is a treasure trove

A little work,

Some tender loving care

And this heart will open

Blessing you with every womanly secret

A feast of revelation from the san greal