PERFECT

I haven’t blogged in awhile. That is not because I don’t write – I do write, every day. And it’s not because nothing “blog-worthy” has happened – it does, almost every day. I guess I haven’t blogged in awhile because I just haven’t been focused on it, and because I’m not sure anybody reads my blogs anyway.

But today a friend directed me to another person’s blog, and I am so moved and inspired by it that I feel it’s time … actually, it’s long PAST time … for me to blog again. The blog that lit this spark of inspiration can be read here: http://www.danoah.com/2010/09/disease-called-perfection.html Read that blog. Or don’t. But if you don’t, what I’m about to write will be less meaningful to you.

I am not perfect. Most of the time I don’t bother to try to hide that fact. A lot of the time, I feel like there’s something wrong with me because I don’t CARE to be perfect, and I don’t even care to be SEEN as perfect. In fact, I don’t WANT to be seen as perfect. On this incredible, delightful, tortuous, winding, endless, joy-filled, pain-fraught path of self-discovery I have been consciously and intentionally traversing for 20+ years now, I have learned that “perfect” is ALWAYS an illusion when it’s some amorphous thing that exists outside your Self; a place you will be constantly striving for without ever arriving. “Perfect” as you perceive it in others or in the lives of others, does not actually exist. It’s a bit like an obstacle course on a circular racetrack – no matter how agile you are or how fast you run, you can never win, because if you ever do get anywhere close to the finish line, it absolutely WILL be moved!

I have learned to look for progress, not perfection. Anyone who’s known me longer than five minutes has probably heard me say that I may be miles from where I want to be, but I’m THOUSANDS of miles from where I started! Progress, not perfection.

And yet … I, too, sometimes make myself the victim of this insidious “infection of perfection.”

I look at my friend Becky’s house and I think, “Man, my poor old rundown fixer-upper of a house will NEVER look this good.”

I observe my friend Kathleen’s money management skills and I think, “Oh, geez, I will NEVER have the discipline she has, so I’ll probably never be able to retire.”

I consider the marriage of my friends Marc and Chila and I think, “Boy, oh, boy, all the good men really are taken.” And I simultaneously think, “Well, sure, if I looked that cute and hot and had as great a figure as she does, maybe I COULD find a wonderful guy like that!”

I sometimes make myself the victim in those scenarios. But the REAL me, the part of me that is mostly dominant these days, the part of me that knows the TRUTH, knows better.

The REAL me is very grateful to have a home of my own. The REAL me knows that the highest mountain is conquered one grueling step at a time, and my “fixer-upper” of a house can be fixed up into a lovely, comfortable home one project at a time.

The REAL me is very grateful to have a good job and enough disposable income to be able to have everything I need and a lot of what I want. The REAL me knows that I have come a long way in my money management skills, and I should pat myself on the back for my progress, and stop feeling bad because I have yet to attain the elusive “perfection.”

The REAL me is very grateful for the knowledge that everyone on earth is individual and different, and for every man who actually wants a stick-figure of a woman, there is another man somewhere who thinks plump and soft and curvy is WAY hot; for every man who is looking for a twenty-something supermodel type, there is another man out there who thinks life experience and inner beauty are far more appealing than any outer quality; for every “wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am” asshole roaming the earth, there are probably ten real men longing for a real connection with a real woman.

The REAL me knows that what I focus on expands, and that thoughts of gratitude are like bunnies – they multiply rapidly and at a seemingly exponential rate, so thinking otherwise just makes no sense.

So the upshot is that comparing oneself to others is not only futile, it’s frustrating and counter-productive. To paraphrase a thought from one of my gurus and favorite authors, Geneen Roth, it’s a hideous disservice to compare yourself with anyone else, because you are essentially comparing their OUTSIDES with your own INSIDES. You don’t know what that person struggles with, nor how their ugly empty lonely moments feel; all you see is the apparent perfection in the face they present to the world. It’s not like comparing apples and oranges – it’s way worse than that. It’s like comparing apples and motorcycles!

But I would like to take this discussion one step further. I would like to posit that while comparison perfect does not exist, there is a kind of perfect that does.

One day, my then 9-year-old son and I had planned a short walk to a park down the street from where we lived when a sudden cloudburst almost derailed our plans. We ended up deciding to go anyway. We plopped through every puddle along the way, we swung on the swings in the rain, we twirled ourselves around light poles and did our best imitation of Gene Kelly, we tilted our heads up with our mouths wide open to see how much rainwater we could catch on our tongues and nearly choked ourselves with the combination of water and laughter. When the rain started getting heavier and ominous storm clouds loomed, we ran all the way home, laughing and sputtering. We stripped our drenched clothing off at the door, wrapped ourselves in towels and then warm robes, and sat on the couch and drank hot chocolate until it got dark outside. That was a perfect afternoon.

Awhile back, having just finished spending three-and-a-half years holding down two part-time jobs while earning two bachelor’s degrees, graduating with a 3.97 GPA and without ever taking a single semester off, my mom and I flew up to Oregon and spent a whole week in a beautiful secluded chalet on the banks of the Zigzag River at the foot of Mt. Hood. We only went into town a couple of times – once to get groceries and once to get a pizza. We talked and we slept and we watched movies, but mostly we sat on the deck in silence and gratefully soaked up the pristine energy provided by the mountain and the trees and the river. That was a perfect week.

In the summer of 2008, my dad and I took a road trip to New Mexico. We visited the Alien Museum in Roswell and the Loretto Chapel in beautiful Santa Fe, and he took me to see the tiny house he spent his first six years in, and the little schoolhouse where he started his education. Knowing Dad’s lifelong fascination with railroads and trains, I arranged for us to take a little excursion. We got up early one morning and went into town to the Santa Fe Southern Railway station, where we boarded an old-timey steam-driven railway car. The seats and the entire interior were circa the late 1800’s to early 1900’s, and it was just like Dad had always dreamt of and pictured in his head. We opened the window and enjoyed the cool fresh air as our train slowly wound its way through the New Mexico foothills, eventually coming to rest at a tiny depot in a tiny town called Lamy. There, we disembarked and enjoyed a barbecue lunch provided by the railroad while sitting at picnic tables under some scrubby trees. The sun was shining, the food was good, and the look of satisfaction and sheer pleasure on my dad’s face was enough to make my heart feel like it might explode. After awhile, we re-boarded the train and made the entire trip back into Santa Fe in awestruck silence, just absorbing and wallowing in the unadulterated joy we were both feeling. That was a perfect day.

You see, before completely denouncing a concept like “perfect,” I think you have to define your terms. “Perfect” as applied to “how do I compare to others, or my perception of others” is always a futile endeavor. Since your view of others is incomplete and inaccurate, there’s just no way you or your life can ever measure up.

But if you think of “perfect” as something that exists inside every moment of your REAL life, if you stand still enough long enough to see it, then you will experience innumerable amazing moments of perfect. Perfect does not exist “out there” or “someday when.” Perfect only exists right here, right now. It’s only hiding inside the thin, illusory veil of imperfection, just waiting to be discovered, brought to life, acknowledged, and made real. Perfect is your birthright. Embrace it. Enjoy it. Revel in it. And most of all, be grateful for it.