"Nothing's perfect", sighed the fox.
The Litte Prince, St. Exupery

And yes sigh, the fox is right. What is perfect anyway? Nothing in nature is perfect. The trees, the flowers, the grass, even the snow. Their beauty arrives from the great sweep of all the little pieces together. The field of sunflowers is stunning, but closer looking reveals torn petals, drooping heads, raggedy leaves. Just like us. Our lives taken in full glance are also beautiful, even with all our torn places: the heartaches, struggles and challenges. Looking for perfection will only bring disappointment and keep us from seeing what matters the most: the whole landscape of our lives; hills, valleys, deserts, rolling fields. Looking for perfect means searching for a way to be in the world and not reflect the experiences of it. To be real is accept life will be sticky, messy and constantly growing and changing. To be real is to allow ourselves to experience tears, and sadness and belly laughs and silliness. To be real is to know life intimately, soulfully and purposefully. In short, to be perfectly alive.