...to love the imperfections of life.

I suspect some of the unhappiest people in the world are would-be perfectionists. Some of ‘em try too hard. To achieve perfection. And they fall short. My mother was that kind. She wanted too many things in life to be perfect. Such as her household. Her living environs. She worked hard to achieve some semblance of perfection. But that left her exhausted. She was driven. Right up to the day she died. Mother always thought that she’d achieve perfection tomorrow. So she spent so much of today preparing for a tomorrow that never quite arrived. And in the process, she didn’t fully enjoy today, or so it seemed. I think it drove mom into depression. Into a sense of failure. For not being perfect. Mom probably wanted her three children to be perfect, too. And her husbands. Mom tried to set a standard. I suppose mom reached me. Taught me something. And that was to settle for less than perfection. Instead, the goal was to be happy. Mom wasn’t happy. Nor was dad, as evidenced by his suicide. See, what they taught me was to not fully follow in their footsteps. Into depression. And unhappiness. I found my own path. To happiness. To love of life. Even to love the imperfections of life. –Jim Broede