This holiday season was absolute imperfection. Money was horrible, we were scrambling and scraping to get what presents we had under the tree. The adults got no gifts this year. Half the lights made it up on the house outside. Our Christmas tree was crooked and full of holes and remained undecorated until about the 22nd. The pinnacle of imperfection occurred right on Christmas day, when this beloved tree toppled right over onto its side, just barely missing the couch. It was about then when I was sent into fits of laughter, because this was by far one of the best Christmases I’ve ever had. Like seriously, that could NOT have been planed better. It was pretty epic.
Striving for some idea of ‘perfection’, in any circumstance, tends to make us focus on what’s bad about us. We look more at what we’re *not* and less of what we *are* at this very moment. We reach for things out of our grasp, and then hate ourselves more when we fail.