How bad is imperfection?

Our internet service has finally been restored, after hours spent on the phone with uncooperative support people and a week of relying upon smartphones and the occasional cafe.

Oddly enough (other than the frustration of telling the same story over and over to people who assume I'm an idiot and then hang up on me) the most disturbing thing about the week was not being able to post decent photographs on this site.  My (admittedly now ancient) cellphone can produce photos, but they don't have the clarity I crave, nor are they capable of the subtlety of light and color my camera can provide.

But is that really the issue?  Isn't this site about allowing words and images to work together to share whatever it is they have to teach us? And if that were indeed true, would the calibre of either really matter all that much? I suspect it's not just about standards; it's about pride, and vanity, and that constant obsession with how others might perceive me and/or my work.

... which might also explain why I wasn't fierce about inviting friends and family to see my play last weekend. I mean, I loved the play, and I came to truly love the people who brought it to life; it was a wonderful experience.  The audience -- such as it was, a house perhaps three-quarters full -- loved it as well: the kudos keep rolling in. But another part of me was, I confess, a bit ashamed of the work: it was, after all, pretty hokey; the singers were frequently off key and out of tempo; the actors flubbed their lines and the musical accompaniment was pretty sparse.

My question is -- does that really matter? Because there was so much joy and laughter in that production; so much freedom, so many opportunities for people to bring their own magic to it... I really do believe it brought -- for however brief a time -- light, and promise, and possibility into people's lives. And isn't that more important than perfection?

As always, I am left with a lot to ponder -- and enormous amounts of gratitude for all that has transpired these last four months: from the invitation to write to the thrill of having the words flow through me; from the terror of all those missed rehearsals due to the flu that went around this winter to the joy of seeing the full cast on stage together at last only 4 days before we opened... Life truly is a mixed bag, full of promise, hindrances, and surprises. And so far I am grateful for it all.

PS: if you can tolerate community theater and enjoy happy endings and bad puns, you can watch a video of our efforts here.  This link will take you to Love Hurts Act I; Act II is then readily accessible (and is probably the best of the two). Each is about half an hour long.