What If We Were Perfect?
What if we were perfect?
As I sit here and gaze out the window to the trees blowing in the wind and the sun shining and the clouds rolling by, as I sip my still too-hot tea and click clack away on this keyboard, I am reminded that I already have everything I’ve ever wanted. There is nothing that I have a lack of, a want for, in this moment. This moment will not last. The next task will come, the next thing to do, time will pass, and it’s on to the following. I spend time; I waste away seconds and minutes and hours and entire days and weeks wishing to be somewhere else, to be someone else. I scroll and fill my mind with endless nothing and wish for more time and more things to do, but also for time to hurry up and for things to slow down.
What if we were perfect?
I am overcome with new ideas, filled with the loveliest inspiration and the attitude that there is nothing that is not within my reach to achieve. I see the picture-perfect visage of the woman I long to be, the professional, the achiever, the one who knows when to sit down after standing for too long. I languish; I feel despair that no words will come, that no energy can be mustered to drive the arrow forward. I will never do those things I wish to do. Maybe it is not yet time.
What if we were perfect?
I tried to write it down, but I couldn’t find a pen. The words are on the tip of my tongue, and yet there they stay. What is a thought remains there, yearning to be put into some action or word or some semblance of reality. And yet, and yet. I am here, spinning my wheels and waiting for some change to arrive. I wonder, is it me, or is it time? All these things that I have done and that I have not done.
What if we were perfect?
Reflecting back, my issue is so often that I hurry and rush into things. A time for everything, and everything in its time. Seasons that come and go. What if I listened to the still small voice telling me when to yield and when to carry on? Perhaps I’m not there yet, and it’s not that I can’t be or that I won’t be or that it’s really any fault of mine. The harvest is not ready, the vine is not yet ripe. It takes time to cultivate, and all good things come slowly and warmly. Even the smallest seed of an idea takes so much sunlight and water and soil and, most of all, time. It can’t be rushed—it is carried by the ebb and flow of the seasons. Did it rain today? Are we in a drought? Days are longer, days are shorter. I reap and I sow.
What if we were perfect?