How to be imperfect ?

In the heart of a city that never sleeps, where the constant hum of traffic mingles with the chatter of countless lives, I find myself hunched, my fingers curled in that hawkish pose over my keyboard, searching for words.

Do they fit, sound nice, or are they forced in their usage, bereft of any identity.

It is a Tuesday, or perhaps a Wednesday - the days have begun to blur together in my quest for a beautiful story. I sit in a small café, the kind where the coffee is always too hot and the chairs a bit wobbly, and I watch the world go by.

A pigeon lands on the windowsill, its feathers ruffled and missing in patches. It cocking its head at me, one beady eye reflecting my own image back at me. In that moment we are kindred.I see myself clearly. The pigeon’s dream wasn’t the windowsill but here we are, Me, lost for words and the pigeon lost in flight.

I think of of my grandpa, a man who had lived through war and famine, to build a life from nothing. His life wasn’t perfect but very inspiring. He used to say, "Life is not a straight line, my boy. It's a squiggle." I kind of start to understand what he meant at this moment. Imperfect me, watching an imperfect pigeon on a imperfect windowsill in an imperfect café.

That night, I dream of a forest. The trees are not uniform, but twisted and gnarled, each one unique in its imperfection. I walk amongst them, feeling the rough bark under my fingers, smelling the rich earth and decaying leaves.

I feel a sense of peace.

The dream wakes me up, but I can’t let go of that feeling . I see the crack on my kitchen tile and remember that memory of the day when little Yohaan had stumbled and fallen, only to stand up and try walking again. Strangely it’s no longer an eyesore, but a reminder of the day Yohaan took his first steps. The wrinkles around my sister’s eyes remind me of the map of our shared laughter. The messy scrawl of my own handwriting transforms into a testament to thoughts too eager to be contained by perfect penmanship.

I start a journal - not a careful, curated account of my days, but a wild, unrestrained outpouring of thoughts and ideas. I write about my mistakes, my fears, my moments of unexpected joy. I draw pictures with my non-dominant hand, revelling in the awkward lines and the unintended shapes that emerge.

I travel. Instead of carefully planning, I let destiny and others lead the way. We end up on a winding path I have never noticed before, discovering a small pond hidden behind a grove of trees. I hear the sounds of laughter somewhere afar and I stand there, my clothes spattered with mud, my hair mussed by the wind, feeling truly alive.

At work, I share my unfinished ideas, my rough drafts, my half-formed theories. I try to excite my colleagues to see if they are interested in building them further. To my surprise, they lean in, eager to contribute, to shape, to create together. Our projects take new lives, fuelled by the freedom to fail.

I often think of that pigeon on the windowsill, when we had too much time to kill. I imagine it soaring above the city, its imperfect wings carrying it to heights I have never dared to dream of. And slowly, day by day, I learn to spread my own wings.

There are still moments of doubt, of course. Days when the old perfectionism creeps back in, reminding me of my inadequacy and failure. Whispering in my ears. But I remember the texture of that gnarled tree and the sound of Yohaan’s uninhibited laughter and it’s doesn’t feel as bad.

As the seasons change, so do I. I become less brittle, more flexible. I learn to bend without breaking, to adapt without losing myself. I begin to see the beauty in the unexpected, wisdom in my mistakes, and strength in my vulnerability.

Unlearning perfection becomes cathartic for me. It is not an easy path, and I often stumble and fall. But it is a path of discovery, of authenticity, of true connection - with my own self and with others. And I learn to cherish it.

We are not flawless statues to be admired from afar. We are living, breathing, imperfect beings, each with our own unique cracks and flaws. And it is through these very imperfections that our inner light shines the brightest.

So let’s go and make some mistakes. Take some wrong turns. Sing some off-key tunes and wear some mismatched socks. Let our laughter be too loud and our dreams too big. And who knows, one day, you'll find yourself in a small café, watching a pigeon on a windowsill, and you'll smile, knowing that you too have learned to fly with your perfectly imperfect wings.

About Me:

I write 'cos words are fun. More about me here. Follow @hackrlife on X