I have a black thumb. My plants die as fast as I can pot them. Here’s one on my deck right now. But when I look out my kitchen window as I sit writing at the table, I mostly just see the happy flash of red. Whatever has died behind it–well, I don’t focus on that. That little pop of red is a firecracker, a smile, a ruby, a surprise. And it’s beautiful. So I focus on that part of it. I am grateful that I am not a perfectionist. Perfectionists never seem very happy with anything, which must make it rather painful to live in our highly imperfect world.