I recently sought Google’s advice on removing a stain from our old sofa. It turns out that there are hundreds of opinions, truths and half truths about stain removal on the internet. It’s a thing. Stain removal.
How great it would be to apply some bi-carb mixture to your life or your mistakes. That ill-conceived and badly timed quip. That phone call made in the middle of the night because you thought that person felt the same as you. That clothing purchase that was going to change your look and attractiveness but never made it further than the bedroom mirror. That hair colour. That email that you forgot to proof for tone and intent before sending to ‘reply all’. That impatient snap that came out loud and angry. That extra slice (or slices) of cake and ice cream and cream (in the same bowl). That broken heirloom. That inability to listen when it really mattered.
But without stains, life isn’t really lived. Or learned.
Stains aren’t just mistakes or errors. They are stories. Capers. Moments where clarity and restraint were abandoned or parked. Or forgotten. They make us real.
Since when did messy, absent-minded, careless, spontaneous and thoughtless become negative words.
Not that you should go forth and throw red wine on your shagpile or tip your coffee onto that crisp linen tablecloth. Remember to go easy on yourself. Apologise, of course. Be remorseful, sure. Try not to do it again, yes.
Just be truthful and genuine.
(By the way, I tried a remedy on the sofa which worked OK. Until the next slip up, that is.)
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