perfection unattained

you know one of the mysteries of writing is that you find yourself as you go along.

when i was younger i used to want to be perfect. no really. seriously. i tried really hard. i sacrificed myself. but when i started writing in earnest a dozen years ago, i discovered that the stories that spilled out of me were about pain and injury and imperfection...and sometimes redemption.

i find now that basically i am living the imperfect life i want. isnt that funny? i have grown to accept that my goal is not to be perfect. and now i am being accused (quite vehemently) of being imperfect. my heart wants to panic and deny and run away...it wants to shrink in fear and self destruct. but isn't this what i have spent the better part of three decades learning? that i am imperfect? isn't this what my stories revealed to my frightened heart?

now i am still learning how to recognize the pain my imperfections cause, and what to do with that information, but once i have said those three little words "please forgive me" perhaps i should acknowledge that "i will never be more than what i am." i am imperfect. and no amount of trying, learning, therapy, religion, self-help, meditation or prayer will ever change that. i am human.