Method to Madness

 

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.)