If you’re going to stop reading because I’m talking about how perfect my life is, consider this: the upstairs toilet was broken, stacks of essays sat ungraded in my backpack, the guinea pig cage needed cleaning so badly it smelled like an inner city bus depot in the middle of August, and some of the relationships in my life were broken, damaged, or dying—due, in large part, to my own negligence and misbehavior. My life is full of carnage, shrapnel, and regret.
But this particular moment was perfect.
So I made a choice.
I enjoyed it.
I basked in it.
I luxuriated in it.
I dived into Anne Lamott’s gorgeous sentences, I wallowed in Simon and Garfunkel’s glorious melodies and harmonies, I breathed deeply into a body that wasn’t sick, I thanked God I wasn’t in pain, I acknowledged that I was warm, had a roof over my head, and was not starving. I sipped my coffee and wiggled my toasty toes and felt the warmth of my socks on my skin.
In an imperfect life, I stopped to accept one perfect moment. And it was a profound reminder that we all have them, and they’re always here if we learn to look for them. Perfect moments never mean our entire life is perfect, because it never will be. But if you let them, some moments can be. And that, to quote Anne Lamott, is a small victory.
So I decided to take a few moments to be in love with that moment in the easy chair.
Then, tomorrow, I’ll fix the toilet.
And, if I’m lucky, some of the relationships. TZT