Over and over again I see the perfect flaw in the mirror. The subtle and not so subtle attempts to achieve a flawless existence. No wrinkles, no blots on my diary. No scratches on my car.
I used to hear it in passing: “let go of perfection”, but I never thought those words were aimed at me. Everything I produce is very flawed, I am very flawed. I’ve resigned myself to being this B+ type. Almost perfect, almost A type personality.
Perhaps after all of the yearning I have finally found my way to the A type persona. And I sit here looking at the mirror and see that is my greatest source of unhappiness. Striving for perfection – not being okay with good enough. I hold myself back, I spend disproportionate amounts of time making it “just right”. When in reality I am but a mirror of mother nature, who happens to be both flawed and perfect.
I must resist the urge to tidy, to go the extra mile for people to be the perfect [fill in blank – sister, daughter, friend, co-worker]. I must sit with my flawed results and appreciate the nuances and possible beauty that can be derived on. I can let my body relax, we are not fighting or flying towards perfection anymore.
My to do list feels insurmountable, my ambitions unquenched, I am still unpacking the house I moved into a year ago. The junctures of life will never be flawless.