Monday, March 20, 2017

What happens if

I hope I’ll be forgiven for this recent spate of thinking aloud.... I do mean well.... But this morning I have to wonder if the assumption that we are imperfect is simply a well-established rut in our thinking, which in turn serves as an excuse for not accepting ourselves as we are and our world as it is, and as we have made it, and go on making it. We accept nature in all its perfection and wonder, and yet the general view is that we are somehow apart from nature, a special case, as it were, a race of beings who must strive for perfection, which is perhaps impossible to achieve, all to be either rewarded at a later date, in another life, or to arrive at an enlightened state. Or something else, or something in between. But what happens if we see ourselves as part of nature, and, as part of nature, as perfect as all else — as perfect as the birds and mists and waterfalls, the deserts and oceans, the sun and moon and stars? It seems to me that this division is something we have created, and which our religions, doctrines, and systems preserve, even as their outward forms gradually change to accommodate new information and knowledge of the very nature we exhibit and are a part of. Or if we are a special case, maybe we are not necessarily special for the reasons we like to think we are. Maybe we are special in that we insist on complicating what is simple, and what is easily accepted by our natural counterparts, and even by ourselves as children. Now, I confess that I am writing this in a bit of physical pain this morning, the details of which are unimportant. But even if it is my pain that is speaking, to me it is perfect pain, and I accept it just as it is. There is no right or wrong time to hurt. No good or bad pain. I will simply sit in an awkward position until it passes, that’s all, or until it does not pass, either way delighted and grateful to be here.


Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Well, William, I had what I thought would be the perfect comment for your post above, in the form of a poem. I wrote this poem about ten years ago. It is titled 'Imperfections'.

Unfortunately, my computer is currently disabled so I have been following your blog on
my Kindle. As a result, I have to type everything with one finger. The poem in question consists of four stanzas of six lines each so I finally just gave up

The good news is that I think you will really like this poem and I believe you actually have a copy. It is on page 12 of my book 'Softwood' which I think I sent you. I hope you enjoy it.


Jonathan Chant said...

Those outward forms are definitely going through a change.

Hope you are okay,


William Michaelian said...

Thank you, Gary, and thank you, Jonathan. I’m okay, just not up to a proper answer at the moment. I appreciate you both staying in touch this way.

Jan said...

Are you okay William? Pain should never be taken lightly!
Your words are brilliant as always but I feel there is something underlying that which brought these thoughts to you. I hope I am wrong and that you will forgive me for asking~

William Michaelian said...

Really, Jan, all is well, and the pain is nothing serious, more a nuisance than anything, I know its source, it’s end is already in sight, just one of life’s potholes. No hidden meanings, I promise. Thank you, as always.

William Michaelian said...

Gary, I do indeed have your book, Softwood, published in 2008, sent to me in 2009, here on hand. Saint that I am, why don’t I type your lovely poem and post it here for the record? Here goes:


This glossy white we painted our kitchen
makes the cabinets and drawers look almost perfect,
but in the stark fluorescent glow I notice
how the shinny bright makes plain
all the scratches and the gouges in the grain
because the sheen reflected so perfectly the light.

From space this small blue ball seems also perfect,
smooth, without feature and unblemished
in the sun’s unyielding light, but when closer
these tiny wrinkles and errant stains
become might oceans and stretching plains,
the grandeur of great mountains touching sky.

The mutation of the genes makes imperfection
and these flaws are by Nature unforgiven.
Millions have died, mashed and mixed
in the relentless genetic blender,
thrashed and cut by evolution’s thresher
and this, in time, made all these creatures perfect.

People, too, are seldom close to perfect
and by these inconsistencies character is granted,
still I notice that none survive forever
no matter how beautiful or strong or clever.
It shows us how imperfect our perceptions.
It is the imperfection of the world
that makes it perfect.

William Michaelian said...

In the name of imperfection, let’s try “mighty oceans...” shall we?

William Michaelian said...

And “shinny” in the first stanza should be “shiny.” Bah! What a typist.

Gary B. Fitzgerald said...

Thank you for posting my poem, William. It is truly an honor to be here.


William Michaelian said...

Thank you, too, Gary.