perfect // folly

something unusual happened this week. for only the third time in the past eight months, i Took A Trip.

it was nothing extravagant — only a two-day jaunt upstate. my partner and i, having recently acquired our first-ever car (a used Prius, as per our demographic cliché), made reservations to camp in the Catskills.

something else unusual happened. i let myself get excited.

as i wrote last week, i have trouble allowing myself to “get my hopes up.” i too often preempt myself with disappointment, hedge my bets with pessimism. but i also have a romantic streak, and a weakness for fall foliage.

so i let myself grow giddy with anticipation. i couldn’t wait to spend two days swimming in the gilded splendor of autumn, breathing that fabled, crisp fall air, far from the vagaries of urban life. surely this would give me at least some relief from the strain of recent weeks. surely it would allow me to connect more deeply with my partner, there in the unpolluted landscape.

…and it started out as a minor disaster. after setting out early on Saturday morning, anticipating a day of hiking and a lunch stop at a favorite Catskill cafe, traffic trapped us in Manhattan for three, motionless hours. by noon, we were still just a few miles from home. when we at last made it out of the city, we enjoyed less than five minutes of highway cruising before a strange noise reached our ears. we pulled over to find a broken part dangling from the bottom of our car. we would have to find a mechanic. i could practically feel the daylight slipping away.

***

fast forward to mid afternoon. we’d given up our dreams of farm-fresh cheeses and organic baguettes, settling for deli sandwiches purchased across the street from the New Jersey auto shop where we’d stopped for repairs. our “picnic” took place in a Chili’s parking lot, and we were now racing to reach our campsite by sundown. there would be no hiking.

i seem to always end up bragging about my spouse, but here i go again: in many situations, he’s much more patient than i. i let him oversee the repairs and the driving, as i focused on not bursting into tears. yes, it’s embarrassing to admit, but i did want to cry.

okay, i did cry, a little. and it took all my recently-acquired self-compassion not to judge myself for what i saw as childishness. whereas, very recently, i would have compared my expressiveness to my partner’s stoicism, my messy “feminine” emotionality to his masculine “maturity,” and derided myself for being so petty.

now, i know better. i know my upset wasn’t just about the hike. i knew i had entered that day already scraped raw, worn dangerously thin by recent weeks which have been even more triggering and trying than usual.

we might all do well to realize this,
to contemplate the context
for even our most mundane days,
this year,
are truly frightening,
truly enraging,
or at the very least,
truly tedious.
(&&while we’re at it,
we should afford those around us
the benefit of this consideration)

and yet, at the same time, i struggled to locate the source of my seemingly-inordinate frustration. why, exactly, was i so upset? sure, at least half of our trip had been “wasted,” but the more “rational” side of me knew that a day of hiking, in the grand scheme of things, is nothing life-altering. i tried to drum up perspective by contemplating other, more consequential problems. “Breonna Taylor is dead. Ruth Bader Ginsberg is dead. 200,000 people are dead. The economy is in shambles. White supremacy is out and proud…”

unsurprisingly, this did nothing but add shame to my frustration.

i finally managed to speak this inner conflict out loud, confessing to my partner how ashamed i felt about how upset i felt. and i found myself murmuring, “i think, when i start to hope for something, i can get too attached to how i think it should be. then, i judge whatever comes against that idea, and it makes me reject things as they are. if they’re not perfect, i am devastated.”

he listened, nodded, “mmhmm”ed. he said sympathetic things. and among them, he also made a gentle, seemingly-offhand observation: “well, y’know, nothing can be perfect.”

as soon as the words reached me, i burst into laughter.

of course.

of course nothing can be perfect.

the very thought that such a thing had to be said, especially now, in the fourth quarter of this apocalyptic year, was absurd.

i felt the tight coils of my insides loosen, as a wash of genuine humor spilled through me.

i shook my head and smiled at my silly, tired, brave, impatient, eager little self.

and i was reminded how difficult it is, this balancing-act of hope and realism, sobriety and joy, yearning and acceptance. especially now. i reaffirm how important it is, insofar as we can manage, to not give ourselves wholly, or at least permanently, to despair.

as i reflected last week, drawing from the inimitable Audre Lorde, to want good things, to want joy or fun or relief or kindness, is a vital instinct. it is essential we retain it, for these longings keep us from succumbing to oppression that would strip us even of our imagination.

but now i find myself contemplating: how does acceptance play a role?

where is the line between clear-eyed awareness of the often-difficult facts of life, and the generative impulse to change, to create, within these facts?

after enjoying a long, bashful laugh at my own expense, i felt better. i realized that my frustration had been borne less of entitlement than a sense of “oh my god, come on, is it too much to ask to have one nice thing?!”

it was not my noblest moment, but it was understandable. and we had moved on.

we reached our campsite just before sundown, pitched our modest tent and unrolled our sleeping bags, and threw together a skilletful of organic potatoes, squash, and chicken we’d picked up at a farmer’s market along the way. it was delicious, with that undefinable, simple richness of humble ingredients cooked over a wood fire, seasoned by the evening chill.

sitting by the flames, i felt a decadent sort of calm, a serenity at once unassuming yet precious, rare as it has become in recent months. i’d just spent the day sitting in traffic and parking lots, but i’d also had sun on my skin, and my partner — healthy and patient and willing to share the radio dial — at my side. it was nothing transcendent, but — in a year when every moment is laced with uncertainty, and so many days have been defined by horror, i find myself wondering, is it perhaps possible to be awed by the mundane? with the aid of wine and country-bright stars and exhaustion, i felt myself sink into acceptance.

and i carried my questions — about acceptance, about yearning, about desire and defeat, with me into the forest the next day. as we rambled around amidst the old growth trees, i spoke little. i was still a little sheepish about my “tantrum” the day before, and i felt hungry for the instruction of nature.

i might have strained my neck for all the gaping i did, turning to gaze at the canopies of crimson, gold, coral, rust, and green. i admired the silent dignity of those trees, their sturdy, graceful trunks sloping skyward with unpretentious might. what had they withstood? how many years were layered inside that bark?

and of course the question of death, of decay.
the paradox of all that beauty,
blazing forth for an instant,
a glimmer in the midst of vanishing.

the whole “what’s the point?” question that nature, in its dazzling abundance, often raises. ecology aside, there is still so much that is mysterious to us. i can’t help but ponder metaphors and the metaphysical, when confronted with the gorgeous strangeness of our resilient planet. why should death be so beautiful? and if a tree is briefly crowned in glory, and no one is there to gawk, is it really beautiful? there’s something gratuitous, like grace, about the whole thing.

yet for all the majesty, it was the humility that struck me most this time. the fact that these trees, for all their age and strength, do not resist the denuding process. come winter, they’ll be bare, yet they’ll still stand, quiet and firm, just as they stood in that moment, in all their regality. then, with the return of spring, they’ll quietly unfurl once more. they pass with equanimity from season to season, never clinging, always acquiescing to the governing rhythms around them.

in what ways can i learn from, and embody, a similar fluidity?
how to be malleable enough not to break,
yet rooted enough to stand firm where it counts?
and how to contend with forces like injustice and abuse?
when to fight, when to sway in the wind?

the trees are not the only place to contemplate these things. there are teachings, many ancient, that speak to this tension, between the yearning for “perfection” — whatever form that takes in our mind on a given day — and the awareness of our limited powers, the impermanence of all that we would grasp for.

i think of wabi-sabi, which i’ve hearkened to many times before, a Japanese concept that celebrates the fleeting and imperfect nature of life. the name marks it all: wabi, which roughly translates to ‘the elegant beauty of humble simplicity’, and sabi: ‘the passing of time and subsequent deterioration.’

it says yes to the truth of the autumnal forest, to our fragile personal kingdoms, to the ever-ephemeral dynamics of human relationships. it says, yes, there is beauty here, in the humble and mundane — in art, wabi sabi favors concepts such as asymmetry, rough edges, modesty, and natural objects. in affirming beauty, it tells us it is okay to desire it, it is natural to identify and appreciate the good around us.

but it also says yes to impermanence. yes, this too is passing away.

and i recall that the original meaning of the word “perfect” is not “flawless” but rather “complete, finished” — something that Life, in its relentless flow, can never be.

does the tenuousness of it all make it more beautiful, more precious, after all?

some days, i might say yes. other days, i find it simply tragic. i won’t tell you how to feel.

but i will only say that these thoughts do bring me comfort, in this time when so much feels ugly, and what is good and innocent in the world seems so frequently under threat.

so i don’t know how this letter finds you, today. perhaps you’re having a day like the one i described, when it feels nearly impossible to hold things in proportion, when something like a traffic jam or a stubbed toe or your rommate’s dirty dishes seem enough to send you over the edge. maybe you’re facing something objectively overwhelming, like insurmountable bills or the prospect of the coming winter. or perhaps — i do wish this for you — this day finds you surrounded by things you cherish, all blue skies and harmony. it’s still possible.

in all of it, i hope, you’ll keep hold of your roots, but also know that there are seasons for everything. that there comes a time when what has once served us — whether an expectation, a relationship, an idea — grows overripe. the day arrives when we are to let go, allowing the wind to take from us what is passing away, shed like dry leaves.

Sarah

(this essay was originally published in my weekly newsletter, [me]re. please subscribe here to join the conversation!)