Perfection

I was lying in bed the other night in the little apartment my husband, Peter, and I rent in Mexico, and thinking things were perfect. Then I wondered what that meant.

Because, without trying hard at all, I could come up with things that were far from perfect — in the world, in the neighborhood, even in my body if I really started digging. But it didn’t prevent me from feeling at that moment, lying in bed, listening to the distant cacophony of noises outside my window — things were, in fact, perfect. I thought about my day and decided it had to do with imperfection.

I only noticed my sheets because I could feel them against my legs. They’re not 1,000-thread-count sheets. These are cotton sheets that have likely been used for a few years. They’re sturdy and a little rough from drying on a clothesline on the roof.

“There is nothing as nice as a crisp cotton sheet” is what my mother would say.

She hangs her sheets out on the line to this day, and perhaps that’s what got me thinking about perfection. Perfection has to be imperfect enough to notice it, to enjoy it, to make me pay attention.

In the apartment, I took a photo of a flower in a pot, sitting on the stairwell, catching the late afternoon light. The wall behind it was a little stained, and as I looked closely, I saw the bloom was past its prime, a little faded. That flower was as beautiful as it could be because it was blooming at just the right time, in just the right light, not trying to be anything other than what it was.

Perfection is perfect because it’s messy and oddly shaped and possibly just a little past its prime.

Till next time, Carrie

Photos and other things can be found at Carrieclassonauthor on Facebook.