The Search
And my internal critic.
I bought a long trench coat. Black. I had been looking for one for a long time. I didn’t like the kind with the belts — they were always coming untied or falling off or something. It fits well, and I can wear it over a blazer if I need to. I felt good about my purchase.
Until today, when I looked down at the coat and saw how clearly dust and dirt and dandruff and stray hairs show up on the black background. Now I am looking for a gray trench coat — maybe one with a pattern that hides any unwanted additions.
When I was in Mexico I wore a pair of pants that dried quickly so I could wash them in the sink and still wear them the next day. They are a little stretchy, and they served me well. But they have cargo pockets, and I want to wear something a little more professional looking at work. No one seems to make pants with the right combination of attributes.
I find fault with all that I have, and all that I am. It doesn’t seem enough to be good.
I wonder where it ends, or if it does. It’s not enough to have 10 dollars more, or a hundred, or a thousand. My car works, but the radio is a little glitchy, and it doesn’t always connect to CarPlay. My last vacation was nice, but I heard that Prague was great.
Perfect is the enemy of good. — Voltaire
If I only worked harder, or studied more. If I only had better connections, or played the right cards.
If I had just become a doctor, or a lawyer.
It’s exhausting, searching for perfection. Even when I watch TV, I know there are better shows that I am missing. My meditation is not long enough, or done quite right. I didn’t see colors this time. My prayers are not selfless enough.
There is a curve that begins at zero. No anxiety, no activity. It moves upward slowly. There is wonder and movement. With more anxious thoughts comes more motivation, and so more productivity. As concern grows to worry, so the work output increases. It reaches a peak that can feel superhuman, but is not sustainable for long. One either begins to crumble under the stress and strain, or less is done. Something gives. Any additional anxiety causes so much harm that productivity begins to rapidly decline.
I would like to be so talented that the thoughts remain calm and easy while the output is amazing, but I’m not built that way. It makes me jealous of those who are.
It turns out that perfect is an idea that is beyond reach. I know a man who machines parts that have tolerances to .999999. He won’t ever get it exactly right, but he keeps trying. We can get to almost perfect, but will that be good enough?
Jesus said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest” (Matt. 11: 28). That, I thought, would be perfect.
Thanks, Bob, for your post. The stress vs. output curve is fascinating.
Whenever I look at dogs, I am at times envious of them. They exist only in “the moment,” generally content. They also know how to go to sleep really easily—a true virtue! We can learn a lot from dogs, I think.