In some dark recess of my memory, I recall ‘perfect imperfect’ being some non-sensical rule to English Grammar. It was not my forte, despite my vocational yearn towards writing. However, today it means something very different to me.
This week I was cutting an onion and in the very centre was a tough node, a little bit of skin hidden deep within the flesh. Imperfect. I went to pull it out and discard it, so as not to mire the dish I was creating and it flashed through my head how centuries of cooks, mothers, nurturers would barely have registered this imperfection, that it would all have gone into the pot with gratitude and so it did mine.
And my thoughts unravelled from there as I realised how much of our daily lives are defined by thoughts of perfectionism and I’m not even talking about the extremities of beauty, art, body & form; I’m talking about the tiny little details that start to create a sense of unease.
The tough little node of an onion; droplets of water spilt from a cup; gravel stones on the lawn; scratches on paintwork; a missed pleasantry; a misspelt word; too much garlic; a late arrival… endless moments of imperfection.
And it came to me, ‘perfect imperfect’, because it all is and it is meant to be, in complete perfection, just as it is.
With deep gratitude for that perfectly imperfect onion.