Leaning on the kitchen counter, both hands making sweaty marks on the cold granite, I stare down at the wrinkled stack of post-workshop surveys. The surveys I made sure to hand out and bribe everyone into turning in with the promise of a goodie bag. Taking a deep breath I turn them back over, face down. I want all 10’s, kind of like I wanted all A’s in school, like it would somehow score my worth, and grant me the label of perfect. The thing about perfection is that it is a completely bogus concept, and at worst can set you up for a lifetime of misery and pain.
“Some of our presenters got both a one, and a ten from different people,” I whined to my friend, “How do you wrap your mind around that?” I felt overwhelmed and desperate, with a sprinkle of unable to breathe. I had just spent many months imagining, planning, and executing one of my dreams, and all of a sudden I doubted everything. Why was I subjecting myself to more possible criticism? Why was I putting myself smack dab in the middle of that arena with the lions again? Was I crazy? Wouldn’t it be so much easier to live a quiet life, take care of my husband, kids, dogs, laundry…and not worry about healing the world?
“Different people will be effected by different parts of the workshop in different ways,” my wise friend assured me, “You need to realize that the parts that people are most uncomfortable with are the opportunities they have to learn and grow.” She continued, “These numbers are not a reflection of you necessarily. They are more a reflection of the lenses that different people are wearing, the whole big picture of circumstances that they bring to the table.” These are not new concepts to me, I think, and still I stare at the “6” I received on one of the surveys and spend way too much time wondering what was wrong with my performance. Never mind the many people who gave me the tens I crave. I’m stuck groveling with my imperfect scores.
The thing about perfection as a goal in life is that its definition is based on your skewed interpretation of someone else’s idea. Think about it. On this planet of seven billion people, who gets to make the rules that define perfect? Teachers? Parents? Bosses? Your sister? Older brother? Your coach or mentor? The Dalai Lama? The Pope? The President? And who are they to create any definition of perfection? Who are we to? Who am I to?
If every single human being is looking at the world through their own, unique lens, there are seven billion different views of the world. Which one is perfect? Or right?
Right.
Are straight A’s perfect? For that semester, with those teachers, in that moment only, maybe. What if getting your straight A’s that semester meant that you were only sleeping three hours a night and you ended up catching walking pneumonia and had to be in the hospital for two days? What is perfect? How about a perfect test score or perfect sports performance? Remembering all the “right” answers on a test might be perfect, but can you think of an example where a test question might be right one day and wrong the next? How about the sports performance? Different day, different judges, different score?
Perfection is a completely bogus idea. I would like to stop striving for it. If I have just given the most heartfelt, passionate, performance of my life, and I feel that, that is what I want to define my perfection. I want to measure myself with my own internal compass. Did I do my best? Did I do and say everything with awareness, kindness and compassion? Was my mission to educate and help? Was I generous? Did I apologize for oversights or mistakes?
Yes.
So why then do I stare at the “6” on this crumply little sheet of paper and feel small and tight in my gut? You asked for this, I think. You are bigger than this, I remind myself. This isn’t about perfection, it is about…and then I blank, because all of a sudden I am not even sure what anything is about anymore. I am doubting everything again, cycling around in my mind, shifting into sadness and joy, and confusion and relief, and it is all happening at once.
“After every big expansion there is usually a contraction,” another wise friend offers. Yes, contraction, maybe. This contraction lasts until I force my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and watch the colors behind my eyelids until I pass out. This always works. I am out cold and startled awake by my alarm clock at 6:00 a.m. the next morning, immediately sitting back in that beef stew of busyness in my mind as I pull the tangled comforter off my legs and go to the bathroom. I still want tens.
It takes a couple more good, deep, conversations with aware and caring people to get me to a place of being okay in my own skin, the skin I think can’t be scored with a number on a survey. I am one in seven billion. That makes me awesome. I remember that as I contemplate picking up the stack of surveys again. How do I want to use this information to help me today, I think. How can I take the lenses of thirty different people and take advantage of that information? How can I use it to formulate my next awesome workshop? These questions pull me back in and I feel myself literally grounding with the next three conscious breaths.
The thing about perfection is that there is no such thing. You get this, right? And if part of me keeps trying to find it, I will spend a lifetime thinking the treasure I seek is actually treasure, when it is really a mirage. I only have myself to answer to as far as a definition of perfection. If I practice being aware and curious about others’ lenses then I will be able to get closer to healing the world without compromising my own soul. There is a way to do this.
So with some hesitation, after everyone else has gone home and I only have my dogs barking at squirrels to distract me, I pick up the weighty stack of white crumply papers and find my favorite spot at the big sliding glass door to sit. I let my eyes fall on the deeper blue of the sky and notice that the sun is out for the first time in weeks, brightening the trees and making my bird friends happy. A deep breath comes involuntarily, like my insides are making room for what I am about to try to digest.
The stack of mostly anonymous feedback sits thick in my left hand, only the first sheet is visible when I finally glance down. Holding my breath I read, “It was all yummy,” and I laugh out loud. All tens. That is just one lens but it only takes one to have me know that it was worth the effort. One life brightened. Like the sun, I must keep shining and believing that my job is an important one, perfect or not.
