Dust

Many years ago, I gave my mother a little plaque that read "Dull women have immaculate homes".  A few years ago, as we prepared to move her out of the house she'd lived in for almost fifty years and into an independent living facility closer to family, that was one of the few things I wanted to keep that she was ready to let go of.

The house I grew up in would never have been deemed immaculate, but it certainly was never dull.  People passed through our door that one would not expect to see in the average Middle American home-former Green Berets, a future U.S. President, drug addicts, ladies who lunched and those that most certainly did not-none of which I thought of as unusual at the time.

That most precious plaque sits on my living room mantel, that yes, at times, can get to be quite dusty.
It is a reminder that imperfection is to be embraced, not shunned.  Having spent far too much energy and time in my early years reaching for that pinnacle of perfection that is, in fact, unreachable for some very good reasons, I actually allow the dust to pile up every once in awhile.  It is a small reminder that life is meant to be lived, not shut off in some china box to be dusted on a weekly basis, only to be brought out on special occasions.  And yes, sometimes it does go against the grain, and the thought that I might somehow be "caught" having a dusty house does occasionally creep back in.
During those times, I once again take my mother's lead-fresh flowers and iced tea make for great distractions.  Mother was right.  Dusty trumps dull hands down every time.