Imperfect
‘I see you posted an imperfect picture’ she said.
There are faint traces of a smile forming around her lips and her eyes are dancing with mischievous delight, so I know I’m being gently cajoled and chided for what in another time was called a ‘too perfect’ Insta handle.
‘Oh which one? All pictures are imperfect yeah? Is it not a Sufi belief that perfection is reserved for G-d alone and that we should strive to ensure we weave a little imperfection into every act of being and existing? Like the humans who weave those beautiful rugs — and the joy that comes from finding the tiny error they wove into it?’
The mischief leaves her eyes and she is earnest now. She leans in towards me, smiles and says with genuine openness; ‘You never cease to amaze me with what is inside that head of yours.’
I mutter or mumble something, suddenly all shy. I feel the heat around my ears, the perspiration dripping down my forehead. I struggle to maintain eye contact and she reaches out a calming gentle hand and sits quietly with me while I run helter skelter after my own fears and insecurities, dig into and cross the lifetimes of childhood, being a teenager, adulthood, my self-image, my weight, my everything visible and all that’s not. Eventually I tire myself out from all this rising panic and dread and stumbling, bumbling self-image and my breathing returns to normal. A gentle gust of wind races towards us and turns into a steady caressing breeze on my face. The heat subsides and I can focus my eyes again but continue to look out towards the sea.
A child’s shriek draws my eye towards a pair of adults and their spawn, who’s standing knee deep in the tidal pool. The shriek was brought on by a wavelet racing up to her and reaching up to her tummy. She’s holding onto the adult male’s hand like it’s her only anchor to reality. Her face is the dictionary entry for pure delight. She’s focussed on the little waves crashing over the broken walls of the tidal pool and rushing towards her. Each foaming, bubbling crash of water sends her into spasms of delight. As the wave passes, she tends to quickly look up at the male adult and he in turn smiles back at her. There are no words, just the firm grasp of her hands on his wrist and their smiles to each other. The adult female is a little off to their left and is taking her own pleasure from watching the surprise and delight of the little female and how she shares it almost exclusively with the male, only twisting her little body to look at the adult female one out of ten times that a wavelet passes.
The Dervish follows my gaze and shares in the infectious delight of what is likely a little human finding herself on the shore of the vast sea for the first time. It’s a perfect day for it. There’s low clouds hanging far out at sea and the sun is generally obscured by banks of higher clouds. The horizon only exists as a slight difference in the greys and teals of the ocean and sky mixing into each other. The temperature is at least 25 degrees Celsius, likely even higher and the humidity only adds another layer to the entire experience. The surf temperature is likely still in the mid teens, so each wavelet reaching the little human is also just a little bit colder than the pooling water — which only adds to the fizz of standing on a protected shore and enjoying waves lapping at you.
The coffee arrives and I turn to the Dervish and finally say: ‘Yes, it was a deliberate choice to shoot imperfectly and post an imperfect picture to mark the start of the calendar new year. A way of starting out as one would intend to carry on. More imperfect images, more self acceptance and more tolerance for the imperfections (or what I may deem imperfections) of other humans I interact with in my daily life. But mostly just for myself. To be wholly accepting of myself, with every flaw and fuck-up and with every regret and mistake, with acknowledgment of every rent I have made in the fabric of time, space and my actions towards other humans, from the start until the present. To be more and fully imprectly myself and attain some peace about all that.’
She nods, smiles — puts down her cup and stares out to sea — the shrieking little human has tired herself out and is no longer in our line of sight. ‘That’s a lot to process and carry with you; just know — and we both know this is well beyond my remit as a Dervish, but as a fellow human and traveller; I want you to know that I’m here when you falter. I’m here if you want to celebrate doing well and I’m here to listen when you feel you’ve failed. Mostly though — I’m chuffed you chose to pick up this task and carry it. It’s a worthy cross to choose and to bear and I’m hella proud of you.’
As I’m sitting there absorbing this default human kindness, her eyes flash and she suddenly adds: ‘And don’t fuck it up hey.’
She bursts out laughing at her dad-quality joke and her high, almost shrieking laughter carries across the now busier coffee spot. All the way to the front door where a little human holding onto an adult male’s hand looks up and smiles at the laughing adult humans.
Imperfect was inspired by an unbelievably perfect early morning in a little village on the periphery of Durban at the start of the 2022 calendar year.
© Jesh Baker, 2022
