I often eat breakfast at the Hema cafeteria and I always take a spoon for my coffee.  For many months I would rummage through the spoon container until I found a perfect one (unbent).  Voilà:

It was simple, elegant, a stainless steel work of art.  I needed even a spoon to be an expression of me.  I wanted my life to be a work of art.

You have to admit … this is what a spoon should look like.  The best restaurants and dinner scenes in movies probably all have ones like this.

One day last week, as I searched for the right spoon, a voice inside simply said “Don’t.” That there was another way. It was a quiet voice, one I’ve come to trust. So … first spoon touched was mine.

Here’s what today’s spoon looks like:

Perfectly imperfect. Twisted a bit, weathered, used. Yes, that’s it. I have walked the streets of life for 74 years. Of course there’s wear and tear. My tummy seems to be growing, along with my nose hair. I have a delightful bag of skin hanging under my chin. My hip often hurts.

I look at the faces passing by the window of Izy Coffee. Hardly a Hollywood image to be seen. Ordinary bones, skin, hair. Showing the athletic or the sedentary. Just starting out in life, approaching the finish line or in between. Plain folks.

Not a perfect spoon in the bunch

But all ready to sip on the next delicious flavour