Perfection

Waking up at 8 a.m. on "Journée des Patriotes" (Victoria Day in any other Canadian province), enjoying walking on the empty street on a holiday morning. I look up at the leaves in the trees which make a canopy overhead and think what perfect creatures trees are. The air is warm with a nice warm breeze. I think, if there is a perfect weather, this is it. A cyclist at the corner café. No one on Laurier street (pictured here). This day off is perfect.

Later in the day, I must get to work to prepare a meeting for tomorrow and my bag is too heavy to carry and the buses too rare on a holiday. So I take a taxi and as we roll down the Du Parc hill, passing a people-full Mont-Royal park, all windows open, I decide to enjoy the ride and let the wind totally mess up my hair until it ends up looking like Einstein's. Who cares, when this day IS so perfect.

I logically know perfection does not exist. Yet I believe it does and sometimes as with today it touches our face quickly, to make us acutely aware of its existence, just before flying away to taunt some other poor soul. We are always left with the delicious memory of it but this constent yearning to find it again. I mentally know perfection does not exist, but that is a lie. I believe it does exist, it must exist, because I have seen it and felt it though fleetingly. And imperfect perfection definitely exists. The imperfect perfection which is perfect for me. But it too, left me as quickly and devastatingly as it landed on me. And I am left searching for it again and again, hoping it will return, though with age logic is gaining ground. But I fight it and look daily for the young sillee girl who used to live inside of me and who let perfection take a hold of her some years ago. Maybe in the end, that will make for a perfectly imperfect life.