In this moment, in every moment, the goal is peace not perfection. This is something I tend to forget no matter how many times the moment cracks open and shows me that the past does not matter.
When hopes come to fruition, there is a sense of perfection. When outcomes seem right and meaningful, whether expected or not, there is a sense of perfection. Things don’t have to be good. They don’t even have to be pleasant. They just have to be perfect, right?
to create imperfection
take a table spoon of perfection
and add a pinch of expectation
~ John Weeren, About Zen
When outcomes seem all wrong, on the other hand, and nothing can make them right again, there is a sense of imperfection, one of the most intolerable, unbearable perceptions I know. Memories and regrets can populate this present moment like a swarm of ants ruining a picnic… or zombies breaking in and eating your brain.
I recently stumbled across a novel that caught my attention, How to Live Safely in a Science Fictional Universe. So far, on every page I have either laughed out loud or nearly dropped the book in sudden contemplation. Charles Yu writes, “Within a science fictional space, memory and regret are, when taken together, the set of necessary and sufficient elements required to produce a time machine.”
In his novel, a time machine repair man is called again and again to scenes in which grieving souls attempted to return to right what went wrong in their past. But they cannot make it right. Ever. Even with a time machine. They can only watch helplessly as the same events repeat themselves, and some people end up stuck in a loop. In a similar sense, attachment to perfect outcomes can make the present moment a living hell as memories run in a loop, never turning out right.
The need for things to turn out right is so strong. We crave, more than anything, that all-is-right-with-the-world feeling. In contrast, the height of true perfection in this moment, this eternal now, is tender, open peace among other things that, frankly, have nothing to do with the past or future or any facts describing the present moment. That all-is-right-with-the-world feeling… but without all the world stuff.
Just… all-is-right.
In the past several weeks, I’ve been struggling with an all-is-wrong-with-the-world grief, a highly tenacious anguish much like posttraumatic stress complete with intrusive flashbacks and random episodes of panic. My all-is-wrong-with-the-world grief stemmed from the abrubt end of a relationship that was as perfect as I ever could have hoped.
As the last pieces of us were all but cast to the wind, I dreamed that my ex-boyfriend’s white Lexus flew out of the sky into my backyard and crash landed in the grass with an impressive nose dive. What a strange dream, I thought, until I remembered something.
My ex-boyfriend once brought my boys a large cardboard replica of the General Lee, the stunt car from the Dukes of Hazzard. He built the car himself from cardboard, plastic pipes, paper mache, paint, and other materials. I wanted to put his impressive sculpture in special spot and stare at it, protect it, preserve it, and honor it, but that was not its purpose, of course.
“Don’t worry if they destroy it,” he said, “I want them to enjoy it.”
“Okay,” I replied warily. “I’m taking that to heart. I’m not going to worry.”
He might have said the same thing about our relationship. Not one month later, the General Lee looked as though it had crash landed over one too many dirt hills. Another month later, it was in soggy pieces.
None of us grieved. I was chagrinned but content. My ex-boyfriend was amused. My boys enjoyed the pieces as much as the whole, and when the pieces had nearly disintegrated, they moved on without regret.
Another month later, my relationship was breaking apart. Like the General Lee. I had wanted to put our relationship in a special spot and stare at it, protect it, preserve it, and honor it, but that was not its purpose, of course.
Insert Dukes of Hazzard sound effect: Nana na na na nanana na na na na!
