The World Is Imperfect
I believe in imperfection.
I have worn glasses since the age of four. My first pair had pink cat’s-eye frames with a thick foam patch covering the left lens so that my right eye, my “lazy eye,” would grow strong. Whenever a classmate made fun of my glasses, I explained the lazy-eye phenomenon. I spoke with a calm self-assurance that I still occasionally hear in myself. And when I hear it, I smile and remember that child who did not see her body as imperfect, who did not see her classmate’s teasing as other than pure curiosity.
Since kindergarten, I have learned to see imperfection. And I regularly relearn. Every time I pick up a magazine I learn how to maximize my investments, minimize my waistline, and organize my closets. Everywhere, perfection glares.
G. K. Chesterton wrote, “Anything worth doing is worth doing badly.” I may not understand him perfectly, but I think he is saying, “Go ahead. Give it a shot.” I believe in imperfection, because if I believed otherwise I would not dare to cook a meal, knit a sweater, stand up in front of a class, or write a poem. Imperfection invites me to step up to a challenge.
My art teacher says, “Hang up your bad drawings on the wall, not just your good ones. You learn more from your bad drawings than your good drawings.” Creativity risks failure, perhaps requires failure. It thrives on exploration, discovery, play.
In childhood my favorite books were joke books. I trace my love of language to reading aloud from these with my father. Imperfection often is the key to jokes. Most humor arises from incongruity, the unexpected shift in which logic or perspective goes wrong.
Here is my favorite joke: Do you know why bagpipers always march while they play? They are trying to get away from the noise.
My great-aunt Margaret Cleary Bauer also believed in imperfection. During an annual physical her doctor broached a delicate topic: “You know,” he said, “you probably would feel better if you lost five pounds.” Aunt Margaret responded, “Doctor, I am ninety-four years old. How good do I have to feel?”
How good, indeed. That’s the question. I can always feel better, look better, do better. I can learn more, sell more, buy more. I can do more, and do it faster. But what is the price of this perfection? Joy. I feel robbed of joy. The good, which is imperfect, becomes not good enough.
I believe in imperfection, ultimately, because I have to. The world is imperfect, and I choose to love the world. This is not easy. I believe in the bagpiper’s labored song, in lopsided eyeglasses, in children who make fun of what they don’t understand, because they teach me patience, discipline, compassion—qualities I possess only intermittently, imperfectly.
Suzanne Cleary is a poet whose most recent book is Trick Pear, published by Carnegie Mellon University Press in 2007. Her current eyeglasses have black plastic frames.