In the spirit, apparently, of my letter~writing, I hereby address this prose to myself:
To Me:
You're OK. You're not perfect. And that's OK. You're not the best cook or the greatest house keeper or very good at returning library books on time. But that's OK. You're OK.
It's OK to be in a rut. As long as you climb out of it. It's OK to be imperfect. As long as you allow yourself to be. It's OK to be sad. And then to be happy again. It's OK.
It's OK to be a mom. An imperfect mom. A mom who loves her kids and tries new things and fails at the new things but revises and tries again. It's OK. You're OK.
It's OK to have laundry and dusting and dirty dishes. It's OK.
It's OK to blog and to sew and to read and to love your husband and to do all these things imperfectly. It's OK that this is you.
Friends, I trapped myself in a time warp. And into a world of perfectionism. And I am quite pleased to tell you that the fog has lifted. God has provided. And in spite of the coldest weather in 10 years and cloudy skies and an imperfect life, my spirit has prevailed and I am back.
No, I'm not perfect. I wasn't back then. I made mistakes. So did others.
I'm not perfect now. I make mistakes. And so do others.
And guess what? I won't be perfect tomorrow, either.
And that's OK.
I'm OK.
I'm me.
And I love that.
