Perfection. For those seeking perfection, they will fail to find it. Perfection is subjective. I know I am not perfect, and could spew forth a litany of my flaws. In their most spiteful moments, my demons are more than happy to whisper such things in my ear, and so I know my defects and dysfunctions from the inside out. But, my flaws and imperfections make me who I am. Many of my flaws are hard won, and well earned, and I wear them with pride. Some flaws, I am working on to reduce their impact on me and those around me. I am always seeking to improve myself, put a little polish on the scars, buff the neurosis to a delicate sheen, hone my imperfections. My flaws keep me from the bland cookie cutter mold that so many people seek, and fail, to reach. I am not a plastic doll, cranked out on an assembly line, identical to the dolls all around me, and would never wish to be. Imperfections and flaws make us each unique, wondrous, complicated, worth knowing. I would rather find the imperfections and feel comfortable with them, than be intimidated by perfection.
Bodies, life, relationships. It is never perfect. But if we focus on the flaws we never see the beauty beyond. When I look at a rose blooming in my garden, I see the velvety petals, the astonishing colors, the heady fragrance, to my eyes each and every flower has a perfection all to itself. Yes, I see the scars left by a bug or three, it just confirms that I am not the only creature drawn to the delicious beauty. Do I toss aside the bud because one leaf is blighted and curled? No, by contrast the defect makes the beauty that much more poignant.
To seek perfection, to focus on the flaws, defects, hurdles, is merely a sure road to disappointment. If you are constantly seeing the flaws in others, you will inevitably see your own flaws as insurmountable. I chose to look at scars, quirks, neurosis, psychosis, defects, and damage as perfectly imperfect, one who has earned their way in the world, struggled, fought hard, won through despite it all. We all have our bug bites and withered leaves, but look beyond to the perfection of the bud awaiting its chance to open to the sun, revealing the inner glory, all the more glorious because of the imperfections. I have earned my stripes, bear my scars proudly, do not cringe away from my demons, know my flaws but am glorious despite them, or because of them. I am Perfectly Imperfect.