I’ve been gradually learning something about myself:

I want to be perfect.

And the fact that I’m not causes me suffering. All of the major world religions teach this lesson upfront: you’re not perfect, and the sooner you accept that fact, the less agony you’ll put yourself through trying to prove otherwise. In his book, “Living Wabi Sabi,” Taro Gold writes:

Those who inspire us most do not achieve perfection through greatness: They achieve greatness through imperfection. All of the world’s best-loved truth-seekers and religious figures, including Jesus and Buddha, led obviously less-than-perfect lives and were the first to let us know that they, too, were not perfect people….

Did you know that numerous imperfections, failures, and mistakes led to the discovery of DNA, penicillin, aspirin, X-rays, Teflon, Velcro, nylon, cornflakes, Coca-Cola, and chocolate-chip cookies? In our own lives, it’s not the parties and vacations but the mind-opening trials of heart and soul that lead us to our greatest personal discoveries.

This is good news for the depressive. Because rarely do we get a vacation from the hard work of preserving sanity, and, well, I’m thinking the parties at therapy and within the hospital psych units are a tad different than the ones Taro had in mind. Most days involve trudging, ever so diligently, up the hill of recovery that usually feels like a mountain.

I guess that’s what I’ve been doing the last few weeks: trudging.

I want to be perfect.

I want to erect boundaries one time, and have them stay there, like boulders, for the rest of my life–uncompromised in times of stress and uncertainty. But that’s not life. Which presents one dilemma after another, just to make sure you don’t stop using all the problem-solving techniques you learned in therapy.

I want to be perfect.

I don’t want to have to discern between a “conviction”–like being a more attentive mom, and dealing with tantrums better than overpowering the screaming by blasting Mozart in my ears–and a “condemnation”: telling myself I am a bad, bad mom who isn’t capable of keeping good boundaries. I don’t want to have to learn the same damn lesson over and over and over again.

And yet, ironically, that’s where the wonder and amazement are. Mornings like today, when my imperfections are as obvious as the rain outside, is when I discover what I’m made of. Anna Quindlen writes in “Being Perfect”:

What’s really hard and really amazing, is giving up on being perfect and beginning the work of becoming yourself. More difficult because there is no zeitgeist to read, no template to follow, no mask to wear. Terrifying, actually, because it requires you to set aside what your friends expect, what your family and your co-workers demand, what your acquaintances require, to set aide the messages this culture sends, through its advertising, its entertainment, its disdain, and its disapproval, about how you should behave….

Begin with the most frightening of all things, a clean slate. And then look, every day, at the choices you are making, and when you ask yourself why you are making them, find this answer: Because they are what I want, or wish for. Because they reflect who I am.

This is the hard work of life in the world, to acknowledge within yourself the introvert, the clown, the artist, the homebody, the goofball, the thinker. Look inside. That way lies dancing to the melodies spun by your own heart.

I’m not perfect.

I’m as close to perfection as Antarctica is to Brazil. But that means I get to start over each day, to figure out a new system that can function with new rules, another game plan that will assist me in getting my boundaries right again. And if that configuration doesn’t work, I’ll wake up and try yet again.

Image courtesy of coffeefashionandsweets.blogspot.com.