I know I’m not perfect.
And the more I think about it, the more I realize that the journey is not really about the destination. That the striving is never going to culminate in a lasting success.
Reaching has never been about completely grasping.
And searching is not always about finding.
We are lost and lost is okay. I’m beginning to feel like never arriving is what keeps us traveling on this quest. Always trying to find what it is that is going to somehow “complete” us. Never knowing when to stop and yet stopping more often than not, too soon to see the fruits of our labor.
I’m convinced that we’ve been fooled into thinking that perfect is perfect when really it isn’t.
Perfect is only a version of life that does not include happiness. For to be happy is to embrace the imperfect. To realize that we are not actually in control. And that we are really here for the ride.
Mobilizing our senses to appreciate the present moment and feel the tangible grossness of it all.
Because it really all is pretty nasty isn’t it?