I have a long way to go. A loooooong way.
Perfection isn’t anywhere close to the messy world I live in. But I’m supposed to be in the pursuit of it, right? Of being bright teethed-shiny haired-tight bunned-doe eyed-yes ma’am-prim and proper-spick and span house-flat tummied-and on. And on.
The world I live in has shredded cheese on the floor. Milk splattered on the base of the legs of my dining room chairs. Cellulite plagues the back of my legs and is creeping its grips around towards the fronts. There are spots starting to sprinkle my face that don’t match the rest of the color that already lived there. My children like to wear mismatched socks and dri-fit every waking second. My pantry doesn’t have a single labeled clear container. The backseat of my car is cluttered with crumbed up Chex Mix littering from one door to the other. I am sometimes snippy with my husband about his French Fries on his dresser. I have crumbs in my silverware drawer. I like people way too much and much too awkwardly. I talk too much. And I. Don’t. Think. I. Actually. Like. Kale.
It’s a thing.
Imperfection.
It’s my thing.
It’s my thing that I’ve learned to embrace. All of the imperfections that make a person whole.
It’s the things I used to hate about myself. Because they used to be defined as flaws. Because that’s what the world around us is told to believe.
But now. Now it’s just who I’m used to waking up to every day.
Owning your stuff, loving yourself, isn’t fluffy talk just to make excuses for what makes you different. It’s imperative for using your super powers to the very best of your ability, I think. It’s key in taking what makes you necessary to helping this world turn and putting it to work. It’s not giving up on striving to become better, it’s allowing you the opportunity to see what you’re best you really means.
And a beautiful soul told me. Almost two decades ago she first spoke the words. She always said, “you will light this world on fire. I can’t wait to watch.”
Even through the mess, she saw that I could become a masterpiece. And while I’m not sure of what makes a masterpiece, I believe I can be what The Oldest and I like to call it, a messterpiece.
She’s sick now. She’s not going to last forever. Just another reminder that forever isn’t forever. That earthly life ends.
But I believe that no matter what, just as she has been over time, she’ll be watching me. Waiting to see me take all of the imperfect parts and serve up something fascinating.
We’re not seamless. We’re all life experiences stitched up patch by patch. We are, each one of us, all shook up into a jumbled mess of emotions and memories and adventures. And made into something resembling a person, walking around as if completely “normal.”
But we’re not normal. Not a one of us. We’re not perfect. Not in one single way. And I hate to ruin it for you, but I don’t think we’re going to attain such a word, whatever that word actually means. We’re meant to flawed. That’s where the beauty can be found. We’re meant to have raw edges. That’s what makes us interesting. We’re meant to be messy. That’s what makes each one of us a messterpiece.
And we each get to think about how we will set the world ablaze. How we will shed our skin. How we will let go of the desire to become perfect and love the notion of getting to be something even better… ourself.
Her words stick with me, no matter what time passes. No matter where she is. And no matter where I am. And I can only hope that I can give her words the life that she believed they could have.
We are, each one of us, full of mistakes. And question marks. And I think, shrouded in grace. And I think that even if we thought we were in pursuit of perfection, we wouldn’t even know what it was if it bit us in our collective bum.
Light your world on fire this day. And believe in your gift to be the most beautiful messterpiece you were intended to be. Because even if you don’t believe in yourself yet, there is always someone else who does.
