CHIPPING HEMINGWAY
September 9, 2013
Today while I was having my morning coffee, I looked down in shock to see that I had inadvertently chipped my prized Hemingway mug. There it was a tiny chip of porcelain sitting on my place mat.
I’m not sure if Ernest himself noticed but it devastated me. Why? Because this was a precious souvenir personally purchased at the Key West home of my favourite author this spring, and now I have gone and made it less perfect. This upset me because I had just come off a weekend where I had also scratched my new Swatch Watch AND broke a potato peeler. Why do I do these things? Am I a wickedly cursed clutz?
Then I got to wondering about it, perfection, and trying to be perfect. Sure that is a near impossibility in life, but when it comes to writing, I don’t think it should ever come in to play. And that train of thought led me back to the master himself.
What if he had seen my chipped mug. I know what he probably would have said, “Why the hell is there a picture of me on a cup anyway? Who buys that kind of crap?” And then he might have added, “What’s to be upset about anyway? Nothing’s perfect in life. All those chips, cracks, flaws, scratches, bruises, scars, that’s what makes life so rich and full! All our experiences help create those reminders that we aren’t going to be around here forever you know. That maybe we should just live life to the absolute fullest as best we can! And if we’re blessed enough with the talent to capture it all in words for others to experience, all the better.”
And so I think I will look at that chipped mug with fresh eyes tomorrow morning and savour the warm drink as I contemplate my imperfections.
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