That’s what the yoga instructor offered yesterday. “In this imperfect world,” she asked, “how can you try to be perfect? Why do you try to be perfect?”
The goal she offered us was imperfectly perfect, or perfectly imperfect, as I like to offer myself.
Not perfectly imperfect like my brother means when he points out that I “try to be perfect, even in my not being perfect.” Instead it’s perfectly imperfect as in “everything is perfect just as it is.” Even the imperfect parts, which is just about everything.
I can try to be imperfectly perfect, or perfectly imperfect. I can let the moment – and me, and you – be imperfectly perfect.
I can, and do, let my yoga practice be perfectly imperfect. My poses are what they are and then the instructor comes over and adjusts me and it’s a moment of “Oh, that’s what it was supposed to be.” Ah well. It is what it is. Decades of yoga and my body has the flexibility it has.
I can, and do, let my parenting be imperfectly perfect. Just ask my kids. I can, and do, let my work be perfectly imperfect, although some people might disagree with that one. I can, and do, let my self be perfectly imperfect – and imperfectly perfect – more and more and more.
In this imperfect world, why would you try and be perfect? Why wouldn’t you just try and be.
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