How I learned to enjoy the imperfect

I realized that I really had no control over how fast Life offered up its goods when death came. At least, I realized it for a brief time. Old habits die hard- no pun intended.

     When I was just a boy, I recall wanting everything now. Now, now, now. For everything I found interest, I really went for it. I wanted to be the best baseball player without ever swinging a bat. I wanted to be the fastest runner without ever competing in track. I wanted the newest, best toys, without ever doing my chores.

     As I aged into my teens and began working a part-time job, this ignorant desire for instant gratification followed me. I spent money as fast as I made it, and even money I had not earned yet.

     My abundant desire for more was nothing to be ashamed about, as I look back, I can see that it was simply a desire for a more full experience of what life had to offer; a yearning for some perfection.

     I would ask myself, "How come anyone would buy a car like that? Why wouldn't they buy the best looking car?" and then, "What's the point in a computer if I can't play the latest games?"

     Often I felt jealousy, a natural response, toward friends in my inability to buy something that I thought I could utilize more to its potential.

     I pulled life in like a kid with a tiny brim on his fishing pole. A white thread of wake close behind because of the ridiculous speed of the reeling. Never appreciating the brim but just imagining the next biggest fish. I developed a really big imagination.

     But then, one day, more than likely when the turnip, which was life, had been bled dry by my own hands, Life offered up something I wasn't so eager for.

     You want, want, want, all of your life until death shows up, then you've got the momentum of everything already coming so fast that Life has reached critical mass and no amount of will is able to stop it. In fact, the more you don't want it to come closer, the faster it comes. Like the final approach to a black hole.

     You've learned to want well, and you know how to not want just as proficiently, but the problem with experience is, whether you want something or not, the more you think of it, the more shows up.

     So there you are thinking, 'I don't want you, Death,' and there Death is, barreling down on you like a freight train with its Doppler effect. The 'not wanting' becomes abject fear, becomes your demise.

     It hits you before you know it and there is nothing you can do to go back and prevent it. You're floating out there in the ether, bodiless, part of the great deluge of light- a candle in the sun.

      You learn a lot out there but retain nothing. Nothing is of substance. You can trick yourself in to believing that stuff is made of substance by focusing the deluge into a concentrated beam, and even get lost in the concentration if you lose the focus, but it all becomes the deluge once again, eventually.

      Was it a horrible thing to think, 'All life really is, is just a time when you are not dead enough?'

      Fighting my return ... What I most recall is that it was a genuine effort to stay part of the great deluge and resist the temptation of life. How I feared life and its fearsome end!

     Until I came to grips with the fact that I would have to face death again one day, I was stuck. Only when I accepted that I had been comparing real-life to the imagination of a better life in my head, did I finally stop fighting my return.

     However it happened, I landed back on my feet and in my own life experience. Had I not have, I firmly believe that life would have eventually sprouted again like grass seed in spring time. Perhaps it's why we all start as babies, and before that, seeds from within the dark.

     Even if the Earth were destroyed, the universe snuffed out- Life would find a way. Another big bang perhaps? Another God floating over the surface of the deep? Another dance of Shiva?

     Though I couldn't retain anything much from the great deluge, I will never forget that final face of death that came for me. Since then, and many shorter lived, brushes with death, I have finally come to realize that nothing is worth rushing, especially in the search for perfection.

       Isn't that really what we are doing when we press the gas pedal down to make the red light? We do it when we skip that goodbye kiss from our spouse or kids on our way out the door for work. Aren't all things we miss, just a sacrifice in search for a perfect balance in our lives? Would it be the end of the world if we were fired for being five minutes late to work and in-turn thrust into another chaotic search for family survival? Would it matter if the chaos was shared together?

       All of the great cosmos whirs and spins perfectly in-tune out there whether we laugh or fret, but sometimes one tiny fear in our head can seem to ruin everything. As a child, I spent so much time imaging things better that I missed out on all of the exquisite wonders of the mundane.

       There is a Japanese art form called Kintsugi where broken bowls and pots are repaired using gold and other precious materials to accentuate the imperfections of the piece. Many look at the Japanese and their delicate movements and think that they have a real appreciation for perfection. But truly, the Japanese have such a respect and appreciate for imperfection that they are taking all the time in the world enjoying them.

       Taoists consider perfection the equivalent to death as no more growth takes place. Perfection always seeks preservation and in so doing denies every joy of change and growth, which is life itself.

     As a young man, one of my first books was titled 'The Perfection of Life'. As an aging man I see that life is not perfect, nor should we make it so.

     Even when I jog for exercise, I am aware that it I am doing it for a benefit of my existence. I'm certainly not rushing to be somewhere!

       If you think life has so much to offer, you're correct, but it exists right in front of your eyes, not in your fondest imagination.

    Do you believe me, or do I still have an overactive imagination?

        Has anyone experienced something similar?

-Jay M Horne
Jay Horne is an author and publisher out of Bradenton, Florida who has shared a genuine interest in philosophy and martial arts since early childhood. He is a husband and father of four.

View all of his professional and philosophical works of literature on his Amazon author page where you will find blogs, videos, and free excerpts:

Jay M Horne