Perfection is…

9 Oct

Hello my lovelies, I’m searching for my perfection have you seen it anywhere?

Perfection is something so completely on the run as to be indefinable by anyone but the media. And you know me by now, I speak nothing, if not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God. So you know that I just spoke crap right? Screw the media. Well, not the whole of media. Just the advertising bullshit.

But you know, I do seek something more. Not perfection per se, as we know that that which is defined in the media as perfect is an illusion. Better yet, an allusion to something that could exist. But could it really? Really? I seek something more than perfection. I want to define me, myself and I.

I don’t think perfection is anything more than being who we truly are. Being the person we believe. The person we believe in. For dishonesty fools only ourselves. You might think no-one saw you sneak an extra slice of cake. But you saw! You might think the Boss  doesn’t know you skived off, after all, what they don’t know want hurt, right? But you know.

Lying is not being yourself. You are not being true to yourself before  you are not being true to others.

Who matters most? The person you lie to the most! You.

Who lives the tangled web of deceit. You spider Jonesyou! 

It’s not about the lying. It’s about not being you. Not being true to yourself.

No-one is perfect. Based on any credentials other than being ‘just as you are [happy being]’ (thank you so very much Mark Darcey (oh and Colin Firth, will you marry me?)).  I’m sorry if you had any illusions regarding that! Smash. Crash, boom, bang. No-one is thus allowed to expect perfection in others. But it starts with ourselves.

You only have to be your true self to find your perfection. It’s not venti, short, fat, macchiato, cappuccino, espresso, water, oranges, strawberries,  a bag of lemons. It’s me for me. You, for you.

We ought not to base our definition of ourselves, or perfection, on other people’s ideals. We ought to remember that. Bit hard when every media outlet pours ideas of perfection down your eyeballs until your brain registers perfection as a set of standards that you now think you have and now must also live up to.

Bloody bollocks.

My journey makes me honest with myself first. It has been a difficult journey to begin because it started with looking at my true self and knowing that I first had to be me with myself. Before I could be me with the world, in the world. I have to learn to love myself before I can be happy with me. Before I can do any of that, my journey has to begin with working out who I am and who I want to be. Based only on me. Cripes, it’d be easier to run for my life peel an apple with an axe.

It’s a hard road, a continuous journey, a work in progress.

Today, I am Mama of two very exceptional human beings. Who love unconditionally. Unconditional love is a true God-send when you are struggling to come to terms with a lost soul, a life that has changed so quietly you didn’t even realise until the person in the mirror was a stranger. A stranger that doesn’t particularly make you happy.

Not a bad stranger. Just a person that needs redefining before the mere thought of happiness is lost in a black abyss. For there is no grey in the deep, dark lost. Only heavy, hazy black. With light at the end of the tunnel.

The funny thing about living this change is that externally you look the same. To everyone else. Inside I feel like everyone else except myself.

But this journey has taught me that change is life. Life is change. Nothing stays the same.

Even an empty swing moves. Changes with the wind.

Wood weathers. Carpet stains. Shit happens.

People can tell you how much they love you, how great you look, how happy you make them, how helpful you are. They can tell you that from the bottom of their hearts.

But it won’t mean much of anything if you don’t believe the possibility that an ounce of truth exists in that. It’s supportive, helpful, encouraging, but it also has to come from your own mouth and heart to be fully heard.

Children, though, bring a level of honesty that rocks my world. If your breath smells they’ll tell you. If your bum looks fat they’ll let you know (you won’t even have to ask). If they think you look beautiful in your jammies then wear those jammies all day long. Children are feelgood creatures with open eyes and unbiased souls. They are only media driven for toys and junk food. Not for how thin you look or how smooth your skin is.

Part of my journey has been in looking at my children in different ways. In particular, looking at them as they reflect off me. Off me as their parent. As a role model. As a cranky tired lady. As their nagging nemesis in the middle of their ipad investigations. As a woman. As a basis for life, communication, interaction, feedback. Love and support, friendship. Nurturing mother. Shoulder to sleep/snuggle/cry/imbibe on.

And what is reflected back makes me feel that some parts of life are just as they should be. That I have cranky moments is acceptable to them. For the love and happiness I naturally and make great effort to reflect and project onto them is life-giving. It is soul-building.

My children are happy, healthy, well-rounded, settled, lovely, good-mannered, beautiful human beings. And in that, I had a very good hand!

And thus, my lovely, lovelies, I am thankful. And grateful. And proud. But most of all, happy. 

 

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