Deconstructing Perfect

Poet, Sylvia Plath wrote of a perfect scene in her diary:
On a relatively unfrequented, stony beach there is a great rock which juts out over the sea. After a climb, an ascent from one jagged foothold to another, a natural shelf is reached where one person can stretch at length, and stare down into the tide rising and falling below, or beyond to the bay, where sails catch light, then shadow, then light, as they tack far out near the horizon. The sun has burned these rocks, and the great continuous ebb and flow of the tide has crumbled the boulders, battered them, worn them down to the smooth sun-scalded stones on the beach which rattle and shift underfoot as one walks over them. a serene sense of the slow inevitability of the gradual changes in the earth’s crust comes over me; a consuming love, not of a god, but of the clean unbroken sense that the rocks, which are nameless, the waves, which are nameless, the ragged grass, which is nameless, are all defined momentarily through the consciousness of the being who observes them. With the sun burning into the rock and flesh, and the wind ruffling grass and hair, there is an awareness that the blind immense unconscious impersonal and neutral forces will endure, and that the fragile, miraculously knit organism which interprets them, endows them with meaning, will move about for a little, then falter, fail, and decompose at last into the anonymous soil, voiceless, faceless, without identity. (Source: Sylvia Plath)
Although we may find that our words — unlike Sylvia’s — are somewhat inadequate, it is not difficult to find perfection in nature, whether it is the scene described or in the quiet opening of a flower. Nature is perfect. From the smallest single celled creatures to elegance of the giant blue whale, it is magical.
Think about it. Anything that we can sense with our five senses can be awe-inspiring perfection. Who can forget the texture and flavour of a delicate chocolate truffle melting on their tongue, or the gentle newness of a baby’s skin, or the warmth of sun-scalded stone?

If the perfection of nature is all around us, why is it so difficult to see the perfection in ourselves?
When I speak of perfection and perfect, I am not running down the slippery slope to perfectionism. Current thinking has perfectionism as a twisted guilt-inducing bastardization of perfect. Neurotic perfectionism is maladaptive behaviour that cause us not to accept anything except flawlessness or an unattainable high standard. According to Psychology Today, this kind of perfectionism is often accompanied by depression and eating disorders.
Psychologist have another name for perfectionism. It is normal.
Normal perfectionism “can provide driving energy which leads to great achievement. The meticulous attention to detail necessary for scientific investigation, the commitment which pushes composers to keep working until the music realizes the glorious sounds playing in the imagination and the persistence which keeps great artists at their easels until their creation matches their conception, all result from perfectionism.” (Roedell)
How can we use all the good in perfectionism without becoming neurotic about it?
We can first define what is perfect for us. Perfect can be defined as “having all the required or desirable elements, qualities or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be.” (Source) In fact, the original Latin only defines perfect as ‘per’ meaning through, completely and ‘facere’ meaning do.
When we stand in our uniqueness, why would our perfection — what we, as an individual are meant to do, completely — be anything other than what we define as perfect for us?
Perfect defines who we are, when we are complete.
Where do we start? We start where we are and look to what would complete us.
There are many self-development programs that can help you write goals, define your passions, and create a vision for your perfect life. I prefer to use prose and write my perfect life story, as Sylvia Plath did, although not as eloquently:
A deep breath fills my lungs with crisp morning air. My tea is steeped and I walk with it down to the lakeside where my Muskoka chair waits. The day is filled with promise. First, it is filled with tea and a book. The house is still and quiet. I have a brief window for me. The lake is serene with wisps of mist floating across the surface. Water spiders dance out from the shore. Although the air is crisp, I am wrapped in warmth from my tea, my blanket and my life.
I can hear the tink of metal on china as Frank stirs his coffee. He joins me on the dock. We don’t disturb the quiet with idle chatter. We sit and breathe in this glorious morning. Soon the day will begin…
With a picture painted, I can walk towards perfection.
What is your picture of perfection? Define it and bring perfect to your life.
