It is the inability to achieve perfection that is actually the most perfect thing of all. It is the ways in which we falter and fail and are broken, actually broken, that makes us beautiful, and special, and loveable – and yes, unbearable, but loveable none the less.
And who are we but simply complicated people whom someone out there would call unworthy. Its the judgement that fails us.
We can point fingers and call names. Thats easy. We can force people to pay restitution for bad behavior. Yet their imperfections still pulsate in our temples.
And what about us? Can we claim ownership of our imperfection, our frailties and faults and misjudgments and yetzer hara and our teenage inner-bitch? Can we wade nakedly within the salt-water waves of self judgement that soak our sensitive souls and lead us to believe that our imperfection is born in our inability to be perfect.
She is a cruel lover; leaving us with desire, wishing, believing and yet, disbelieving. Her cruelty lies hidden within her disaffected, sultry beauty. She does not long for us. And still, we want to bring her home, to Mama.
~with imperfect love, jrb