Faults

Everyone has them of course, even saints might be faulted for their saintliness–surely that would be hard to live with. But this week, after I set my hearing aids for safety in my hat while I swam and then lost them who knows where when I casually put on my hat–I have been berating myself for my inattention to the physical world, for the way I leave a trail of unfinished projects and detritus everywhere, and for other, more serious flaws that I will not mention here. 

In fact, last night, I gave in to a perfect frog fit of self-loathing, in which I remembered that at least Larry loves me, although no one knows me better. That counts for something! Then this morning, I happened across this poem (written about 100 years ago), another solace.

Faults

They came to tell your faults to me,
They named them over one by one;
I laughed aloud when they were done,
I knew them all so well before,–
Oh, they were blind, too blind to see
Your faults had made me love you more.

Sara Teasdale

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