Dark Patches

I woke up in the predawn stillness, put on some clothes then stepped out of the bedroom. Nobody was up yet, so I walked very quietly to the glass sliding door at the back of the beach house. I drew back the blinds, held my breath for a moment, then slowly and with relish drank in the view before my eyes.

The first word that came to my mind was serenity, then I thought of purity but stopped short. The sea, the sky, and the glowing horizon were decidedly nature refreshed and pure. The white wooden deck was covered in untouched morning dew. But those mats on the deck were nowhere close to purity, in fact they looked definitely shabby and dirty. Joyce had told me the day before that they had used the mats to wipe off the sand before getting inside whenever they had come up from the beach. Those mats might form dark patches in an otherwise immaculate setting, but they were a part of it all the same, and I had to include them if I wanted to shoot an honest picture.

I thought about the dark patches of my own life. My flaws, my mistakes, my regrets, the people I had hurt because I sometimes might act like an arrogant bastard. I could not just wipe these unflattering blotches off my slate. Whatever my life comprised, pure or soiled, noble or sordid, I would have to carry them all in one bundle. And whoever loved me would also have to accept the whole package deal.