And it occurs to me that each morning I rise with the unstated expectation of being perfect.
Not said in plain words "Today I will be perfect!"
Instead implied in commitments to not make mistakes.
Undertones in the shades of green, ruby, and gold.
Admonishments for being too envious, angry, or opulent.
My mind is cloudy before sleep.
And upon the first falter each day, the failures beam in indignation.
Blinding all that is good,
Spotlighting much of what is bad, nay imperfect.
And I tell myself,
"There is no perfect",
Yet I meet each mistake in shame.
Still each day presents a new opportunity.
A chance to get it right,
To all but delight in failure.
To welcome wrong positions and
and the pressing forward through those faults
To the signifier present all along: