My life is perfect. I have the perfect wife. The perfect career. Perfect children. A perfect house in a perfect city. Perfect canine companions. Perfect clients. Even a perfect mother in-law.
Before you get all bent out of shape, I’m not proclaiming that my life is better that yours. We all have different ideas on what we think is a good life. But to me, it's pretty damned perfect. It matters not that I’ve never been to Europe (I’m more intrigued by Africa, actually.) It doesn’t matter that I attended a small college as a 30-something year old man (hell, I’m one of the few people in my family that even got to college.) And in a perfect world I suppose I would have come from money to make the hard times softer. But I don’t. I continue to earn my own keep. And I’m ok with all of this – as imperfect as it may seem to you. I’m not driven by status. That’s just not my movie, man. Mine is simpler. And perfect.
But perfect scares me. Perfect makes me think it’s all going to come crashing down. I’m due.
You see, I have a deep personal reference point to imperfection. Nineteen years ago I experienced a spiritual awakening. My life changed immediately and has been on an ascent ever since. Before that epiphany, I was a nomad wandering in and out of stranger’s lives with reckless apathy. It was bad, but I brought it all on myself. In an attempt to control things to fit into my wise (limited) view of how my life should be, I completely lost control. And it wasn’t until I finally stopped holding on so tightly to things that I was able to start gaining control. God…what a kidder.
And so I fear perfection because I don’t feel like I really deserve the blessings that surround me. I know damn well that I’m lucky just to be alive today, much less sober of spirit and worthy of these gifts.
Of course I hope the ascent continues, but I keep a weary eye out for irony. I’m just not ready for this to end.