per·fec·tion – the condition, state, or quality of being free or as free as possible from all flaws or defects.
I would never call our garden, gardening or growing conditions perfect.
The squash bugs always attack.
The Japanese beetles always strike.
The aphids always find us.
Yet, we always manage to–if not overcome–adapt and control these pests.
We always manage to get–if not a surplus–a good harvest.
We always manage to–if not grin wildly–smile in satisfaction over something.
Harvesting bright red tomatoes.
Watching dusky purple borage flowers bloom.
Hearing frogs croak and chickens cluck.
Smelling dill as I sit on the deck drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book.
All near perfect moments.
But I do know perfection.
I see it in the boys’ delight over finding a bug.
In their pride at seeing something they planted growing.
I hear it in their absolute joy at eating broccoli fresh out of the garden.
In their shout of triumph at finally catching that lightning bug.
I feel it in the warmth that embraces my heart.
In the absolute wonder that fills my soul and mists my eyes each time I see them walking, running and playing in the small world we have built for them…for us.
I see it. I hear it. I feel it.
In small, ordinary moments…every day.