“Perfectionism is self-abuse of the highest order.”
~ Anne Wilson Schaef
Today was a warm, sunny Saturday morning. Even the birds sung their favourite songs, just as the sun dawned above my open window. Perfect — this is the kind of stuff you dream about during the dark, numbing mornings of winter.
Everyone is entitled to the pursuit of happiness. However, we all have our own definitions of happiness, despite the feeling being indistinguishable in all of us. I read a story once of a young woman, who despite her husband’s constant cheerfulness and lack of quibble, could never understand why he was so happy in the mist of their immense poverty and need. And she resented him for that; it was only until the husband never returned home from work one day, that she saw the true meaning of life. It is almost too easy to see the missing elements in one’s life: how we would like to make more money, have more friends, be more attractive. True happiness can only be found in what is already given. The joy of materialistic things — a new car, a new job — can only provide happiness for so long; in fact it creates a cycle of desire and hunger that can only be temporarily satisfied. When one learns to gain his happiness from the small, yet unique intricacies of our individual lives, only then can he acquire eternal bliss. Perfection is not achievable; life does not have to be perfect to be pleasing.