As
much as I pretend I don't, I really do
want everything to be perfect.
Obviously,
my kind of perfect is different from your kind of perfect.
And
to have everything revolve around our intimate sort of utopia, connotes the
ability to have absolute control over
all aspects and all peoples in life.
Control
over our homes, our occupations, our children,
our
relationships, our incomes,
our bodies (if my pregnant boobs get any
bigger I may die),
our energy levels,
our
hormones (mine are spiraling lately),
our
temptations, our cravings, our spirits.
At
times I just ache to have the power to arrange all such facets of life to
exactly my liking.
But
life is messy.
And
we all lack despotic control.
As
I contemplate its chaotic, twiggy, messiness,
I
can’t escape the thought
that perhaps
the
whole point of all of this,
the
whole purpose of this life,
is captured within life’s tangled untidiness.
For
how can it be possible for perfect beings to be formed
from
unadulterated, neatly formed lives?
How could we learn to overcome fear, fortify
faith, and fill our selfish souls with a pure love,
without
experiencing the orbiting agitation of being alive?
So
rather than becoming consumed by the imperfectness of it all,
and
especially the seemingly endless fallibilities in me;
I
am now motivated to greet and even invite in this imperfection.
And
hopefully, from all of this blemished disarray, a being of sculpted refinement
will emerge and all of the messiness will not seem so untidy and so unnecessary
as it once did.
As
the illustrious Shakespeare wrote,
“Though this be madness, Yet there
be method in it”
(Hamlet,Act 2, Scene 2.)
