The Art of Imperfection:: All you create is essential. Sing it with me. There is no time to second-guess this. Just make and make again and make more. Listen to the well that is already within you. It trickles from the primordial, all those aeons and epochs bringing us here and amid the echoes of commerce and the mirrored lies that more training, more degrees, more and more will somehow give us value, our souls long simply to see each other. This is art: show me your soul. It looks like nettle infused home cooked meals and calendula gardens grown wild, its frame is colored with beeswax crayons and salt dough on an afternoon with babies, it smells like sea bath salts and the shavings of hand carved spoons, it tastes of curatorial chocolate or lemon balm elixir, it sounds like the pipes your grandmother gave you and the guitar you taught yourself, its touch is woven tapestries and a dye bath of rust on silk. You offer and offer and offer and question, as do I, but the more I live into the shortness of things and a life woven small, the more I wish to release the question. You inspire with your making, your lives are art. And beyond the valley of televised fame or press kits or dollars there is a meadow with a blanket spread and an invitation. Show me what you made today.