Perfection is an illusion—an impossible ideal cooked up by the Devil. Okay maybe not the Devil. But most certainly it has been concocted by the ego—that amazing image of ourselves we project and try so hard to uphold.
I’ve sought perfection all my life both inside myself and expected it from the world around me: the perfect mother, the perfect pony, the perfect complexion, the perfect sunset not obscured by telephone poles or ugly buildings, the perfect lover unhindered by personal baggage and untidy sock drawers, the perfect job that pays a lot of money and doesn’t take up much of my time.
Right.
you’d think the fact that external perfection (as I wanted it) was elusive might have been a hint for me to let up on the striving for internal perfection. But no. The expectation was too ingrained. Maybe it was my German doctor grandfather’s fault?
“Don’t compare yourself to the worst Cate, compare yourself to the best,” was his most lasting advice. Of course, if he’d been truly wise and freed-up from his own issues he’d have told me not to compare myself to anyone at all.
But Grandpa wasn’t perfect either. And the fact tormented him until the day he died.
So where do we get this drive for the “P” word? I think we must turn to religion for that particular gift! God, of course, is perfect. And we’re supposed to live up to His expectations of perfection as well. (At least we’re told that’s what HE, like all autocratic fathers, expects.) And then we have the image of the Holy Mother Mary—virginal and pure all dressed in blue—peering down into the face of her dead Son—The Perfect Lamb—sprawled bloody and beaten in her lap. Ah yes. Perfection. Definitely something to strive for.
Strange, considering the apparent consequences, that any of us would seek it at all. But who has a choice? We’re little kids when the perfection boom is lowered on us. We absorbed the expectation and the RULE like sponges and picked up the yoke.
And yet growing up I don’t recall perfection being a spiritual ideal at all. It was more about being “good” in the eyes of others and following the rules set by my parents and teachers. It was about being “the best” at whatever task I set myself—worldly, physical things like making a perfect score on a test or playing the piano perfectly in recital.
Of course, as I grew older, the list of things I had to have or be or do to be perfect expanded. I had to look perfect—like Barbie, the doll I detested because of her long luxurious hair (which I’d never have), her big boobs (which I’d never have either) and her long legs etc etc.
I had to find the perfect career to be fulfilled. I had to find the Perfect Mate so I would be happy. I had to live in the perfect house and drive the perfect car… all of which eventually sent me on a quest to find the Perfect Martini so I wouldn’t care so much; the perfect anesthesia so I wouldn’t be able to feel the cut of not being perfect at all… the pain of simply being human.
How was I to know that the TRUTH was … that is enough. Perfection is LIFE itself. Just as it is. Which means—gasp!—that it’s me. Just as I am.
Nobody taught me that. Reverend Peters, serving wine and tasteless gluey wafers in his church once a month didn’t know that. Or if he did, he didn’t spread the Good Word. My parents didn’t know. Nor the neighbors, nor my boss at WIS-TV. My husband didn’t know—at least not husband number 1. My ex-husband #2, Simon, might know by now. He’s a breast cancer survivor and seems at peace with life whether he continues in residence on this planet or not.
How different the world would be if we could see that every moment is special in its own right! Every child. Every note sung, perfect pitch or not. Every tear shed. Every shout of laughter. Every failure. Every small success.
Maybe we wouldn’t even think in terms of success and failure anymore. Maybe we would simply… what? Be ourselves? Create? Shine? Dance? Weep?
Maybe if I’d been taught that there’s more to me than meets the eye … more to me than my bank account or my size 12 figure … maybe if I’d been taught that life is okay however it is, it wouldn’t be painful not making the New York Times bestseller list in 60 days with my first book. It wouldn’t be painful downsizing my living accommodations and perhaps—GASP!—maybe, even my expectations.
And would it really be “downsizing” to align my expectations to accept how life really seems to work? Not in picture-perfect manifestations flowing easily from picture-perfect Vision Boards displaying picture-perfect dreams and goals matching picture-perfect social and spiritual expectations… but in the odd, quirky “it doesn’t look like what I said wanted or smell like what I expected, or sound like whatever I wanted to hear BUT, what just showed up just seems to kinda ‘fit.’” It feels right … comfortable. Like … me.
Nothing like a new definition to set the world straight.