Perfectly imperfect

Ever feel like the universe is trying to tell you something?  These were two of the pics that showed up on my Instagram feed this morning:

A couple of years ago, sitting over beers in Nicaragua, one of my best friends and "twin" told me her favorite quote, which became my phone's wallpaper for a while:

This morning sitting in meditation, a thought occurred to me that takes this insight one step further: "There is a crack in everything... that's how the light gets out."  It's not in projecting the perfect images of ourselves that we connect; it's by being real, honest, and vulnerable that our true light emerges and real connections forge.

I've been proud of my (far-from-perfect) morning ritual, which I've been committed to for the last few years.  It's what I nerdily-call my "power hour" and consists of 20 minutes meditation, 20 minutes movement, and 20 minutes journaling.  Over the weekend, I watched a video from Robin Sharma (you either love him or hate him) that talked about his 5am club (the first time I heard that, I was intrigued but in my I-love-sleep phase... I'm still in my I-love-sleep phase but now 5am is a luxury).  He talks about 20 minutes intense movement, 20 minutes inner insight (through meditation, journaling, etc), and 20 minutes learning -- whether it's reading, watching a TED talk, doing a online course, etc.

I decided to try this last piece out and this morning finished an incredible book Tyler says has been trending in the dad blog space: Love That Boy by Ron Fournier -- who writes about outsized parental expectations, coming to terms with his son's Asperger's, and learning to love his son for who he truly is.  Even for parents whose children are not autistic, it's a book that hits home: "Dreaming big is how mothers and fathers seize control from chaos, which is the essential ingredient of parenting these days."  At the same time I'm highlighting passages like, "If you're an Ivy League graduate, you probably expect the same gilded path for your child," I find myself torn about buying books recommended by friends at my Columbia Business School reunion, with titles like "How to multiply your baby's intelligence" and "How to give your baby encyclopedic knowledge."  The marketplace for raising perfect children is immense -- starting from when babies are still in-utero (another friend and Harvard alum told us about a belt I could purchase and wear while pregnant, which plays classical music to the fetus to help spur development).

And yet while our apartment is slowly becoming inundated with baby gadgets and gizmos a-plenty (and woozits and whats-its galore... sorry, Elliot and I were dancing to Disney radio this morning)... I know that the biggest present we can give to Elliot is our presence (couldn't help the pun, sorry again...)  Seriously, though.  Last night, as Tyler and I were watching "The Americans" (our recent obsession) and balancing Elliot on his feet facing us (his recent obsession) -- he would just turn his head to each of us, smiling until one of us turned to him, and then would give us the biggest smile that would light up his face, mouth wide open.  We'd each smile at him for a few seconds, then turn back to the TV.  Finally, Tyler (in many ways the better parent of this duo), said we weren't being fair to him, turned off the Americans (okay, paused it for later, let's be real), and turned all our attention to Elliot.  He couldn't be happier, which made us happy, which made him happy... etcetera etcetra... 

It made me think about a lecture I heard a couple years back, about self-esteem.  The biggest foundation you can give a child around self-esteem is providing them two things: attention and acceptance.  I think about that a lot now with Elliot.

I'm committed to accepting Elliot for who he is -- now (when it's easy) and in the future (when it's no-doubt harder).  And I want him to accept who he is too.  But how can he do that without me mirroring my own self-acceptance?  Harvard's "Red Book" just arrived this morning -- a literal red book highlighting what all my classmates have been up to over the last five years (leading up to my 15 year reunion later this month).  Five years ago, I could barely even read through it -- when I did, I got caught up in waves of insecurity and competition.  This morning though, I read through it with surprising delight -- feelings of love, connection, and gratitude.  Partly, it's me and how much I've changed (no-doubt spurred by my morning practice); but partly it's also others and how much they've changed (my college ex-boyfriend writes about surviving cancer and what that's meant for him).  Of course, I can't pat myself on the back so much -- I can barely make myself read my own entry even this time around (like hearing your voice played back on a recording).  But going back to the Insagram posts and my own a-ha ("the cracks let the light out"), the entries that speak the most to me -- the ones that make me want to seek them out at reunion (including my ex-boyfriend... we parted on not-great terms) -- are those that are real.  And honest.  And far from perfect.

These are the lessons that I'm only realizing now (ever the late-bloomer), and ones that I want to teach Elliot and (god-willing) his siblings.  As a recovering perfectionist, I realize the quest is not one towards perfection, but about balancing the "perfect imperfection" of the present and growth towards the future.  We're all perfectly imperfect.  The courage is in not only accepting this, but actually embracing this -- in others... and perhaps hardest of all, in ourselves.