Present Over Perfect

courage.
Let’s talk for a minute about perfect: perfect has become
as near a dirty word to me as hustle, prove, earn, compete,
and push. Perfect is brittle and unyielding, plastic, distant,
more image than flesh. Perfect calls to mind stiffness,
silicone, an aggressive and unimaginative relentlessness.
Perfect and the hunt for it will ruin our lives—that’s for
certain.
The ache for perfection keeps us isolated and exhausted
—we keep people at arm’s length, if that, and we keep
hustling, trying trying trying to reach some sort of ideal that
never comes.
I’ve missed so much of my actual, human, beautiful,
not-beautiful life trying to force things into perfect. But
these days I’m coming to see that perfect is safe, controlled,
managed. I’m finding myself drawn to mess, to darkness, to
things that are loved to the point of shabbiness, or just
wildly imperfect in their own gorgeous way.
I’m drawn to music that’s more earnest than tidy, art
that’s more ragged than orderly, people who are just a touch
more honest than is strictly appropriate for the situation. I’m
finished hustling for perfect. It didn’t deliver what they told
me it would.
And so, instead: present. If perfect is plastic, present is
rich, loamy soil. It’s fresh bread, lumpy and warm. It’s real
and tactile and something you can hold with both hands,
something rich and warm. Present is a face bare of makeup,
a sweater you’ve loved for a decade, a mug that reminds