A Matter of Pride

When I create a piece of art, such as a calligraphed poem, a lot of me goes into it.  It's not just the time clocked planning the layout, doing the math, measuring margins, running to Hobby Lobby when my ink suddenly runs out mid-word.  No, each piece becomes part of me.  Throughout the day--and often into the night--I'm thinking how to best shape this flourish, paint the flower, create this effect, blend illustration and words.

When it's done, I carefully pack each one, sandwiched in between two pieces of stiff cardboard to keep it safe.  I take it to the post office.  I track it's journey.

Yesterday, I received a message from one of my most recent customers in the UK.  She'd requested the Yeats poem illustrated with English bluebells.

She wrote:

The poem and artwork is beautiful and the gift card was a wonderful surprise!
The package made it all the way to my front door in perfect condition. Whereupon the postman bent it and forced it through the box. Its badly creased top and bottom to the point it can't be ironed out. I'll be making an official complaint tomorrow morning.

I feel bad for her. She asked for this poem, chose the illustration, paid for it and waited for it to come.  And now it isn't even fit to hang!  I also feel bad for me.  It's a piece of me that postman unwittingly destroyed.  

I'm going to make my customer a new one.  No charge.  This wasn't my fault, no, but it's a matter of pride.