At the end of ‘Black Swan’, Natalie Portman’s ballet-dancer falls through the air having finished a triumphant performance of ‘Swan Lake’ that literally bleeds the life out of her. Or maybe it doesn’t. That gloriously fucked-up movie leaves it somewhat up in the air. She whispers almost inaudibly, “I was perfect.”
I still want to be perfect too, but it’s a much smaller want, more of a general nod in that direction if you will. Not much more than a whisper to be honest, and it’s taken quite a lot of work and effort to make it to this point. I spent many years pretending, claiming I really didn’t care, when really I did. As soon as I admitted to myself that, yes, being perfect was important to me, was a lifelong goal of mine, it suddenly lost its power. It lost its hold. The spell was broken. And I could, and can, genuinely say it no longer matters as much. That holds a different kind of strength and power.
This journey isn’t quite over, and part of me fears it is so far from being over I will never get there, yet that will be all right too. We aren’t designed to resolve absolutely everything. Without some itch or impetus, we wouldn’t make motions to do much of anything. I’m grateful for the spark that lingers, the electric frisson that lights up all the darkness momentarily, showing the way in tantalizing and all-too-quick fashion, leaving us always on the cusp, ever-wanting for more. We see, for one shining moment, all there is to see, and we spend our lives seeking out how to find that paradise, stumbling over all the paradise that’s right in front of us, beside us, within us.
In the middle of the night, alone in bed, I grapple with the nagging remnants of that need to be perfect. There, I go over mistakes, my face flushing again at my fumbles, my heart racing with remembrance of all my rookie errors. Lately, though, I’ve begun to let go. And I’m getting rather good at it, so much so that I let a lot of it go before I even find my way to bed at night, and by the time I put the book down and turn off the light, I’m able to slide swiftly into slumber.
Reflecting on how much I’ve worked on things over the past several months – a time period in which we’ve all changed in some way – my therapist reminded me of how far I had come. I’d been so busy moving forward, trying to better myself, that I hadn’t taken any time to look back. That was a good thing. When you get lost in a task, it means you are enjoying life – you are flirting with happiness by being more fully present in the moment. It’s a form of mindfulness, and it occupies the space that would otherwise be left for demons and troubles to populate.
Art and beauty can fill those spaces too, especially when you find yourself too overwhelmed or tired to be mindfully present (and that does take a fair amount of effort). Meditation has helped in my case too – canceling out that void of space that would otherwise be bombarded with racing thoughts and worries, allowing it to be empty and quiet for a bit, to exist in silence and stillness. It’s not perfect, but it’s perfectly imperfect, and that’s the best that any of us can hope to be.
