Walking in Tel Aviv’s Yemenite Quarter I saw this painted on a wall:
It’s become a mantra for me. It’s not perfect. It (whatever it is) isn’t meant to be perfect. It can’t, shouldn’t and won’t ever be perfect. But it’s all yours. In its imperfection. In its brokenness. In its flawed, lacking, and at times underwhelming state. In its messy, frazzled, never on time bedraggledness. It’s not perfect, but it’s all yours.
It’s not perfect but it’s all yours