No One Is Perfect

What Trees Have Taught Me

I spend most of my days trying to get to zero — trying to have zero unread e-mails, zero unreturned calls, zero notifications from social media platforms, an empty laundry hamper, a vacant kitchen sink, no tasks or errands left to do, none of my work for the day still incomplete.

My parents taught me that duty should come before fun. Before I could play or watch television (PBS only), my homework and chores needed to be done. I’ve embraced that philosophy. I enjoy myself most only after I’ve addressed all of my responsibilities. I don’t fully relax and enjoy my breakfast until my cats are fed. My day doesn’t begin until I’ve made my bed. Sometimes (too often) I wait to use the restroom or eat lunch until I’ve reached a “neat” stopping point in my work — i.e., the end of a chapter, page, or section.

As a recovering perfectionist, I have had to learn how to let things go — how to walk away from an unfinished project or unanswered e-mail so that I can eat, pee, sleep, or go home. It’s been an uncomfortable lesson — learning how to leave things for later, for (gasp!) someone else, or for tomorrow. I like to make my “done” checkmarks myself — and today — now!

True zero, much like perfection, is a Sisyphean goal — an elusive target that will never be struck. There is always more to be done. And what has already been done can always be improved upon. Perfectionism is a black hole to effort. It looks at the best a person can do and says, “Not good enough.”

However, the natural world defies perfectionism. It is full of rough edges, crooked lines, scars, scratches, asymmetries, and indentations. It is full of unfinished things. Nothing is flawless. No one is perfect. Life is often messy.

Striving for perfection is quite literally unnatural. The elimination of all flaws is a losing battle that erodes satisfaction. Here’s an example that’s somewhat silly: Manicures are my adversary. I obsess over picking the “perfect” color. No matter which hue I choose, I wonder if I would have been happier with another. Once my nails are coated, I marvel at the feel and sheen of the enamel. I find my fingers fascinating. My attention stalks them. I can’t stop staring. Eventually and inevitably, I find a fault — a small sliver of my nail the technician failed to cover or a chip that formed because I don’t coddle my hands — I make them work. Once spotted, I can see nothing except for the flaw. I obsess over it, making it bigger in my mind’s eye, until I can’t stand it any longer and reach for the nail polish remover — one finger’s flaw requiring the rest to lose their color. (I haven’t had a manicure in over a decade.)

Perfection appears ideal, but it’s a dangerous mirage. It is blind to what is good because it is so focused on finding faults. Perfectionism is an ailment that pretends to be a cure. It promises to make things better (perfect, in fact), but it just makes things seem worse.

As a perfectionist, I like precise circles, straight lines, and right angles. Even my clutter is organized. My junk drawer is in order.

But nature does not limit itself to symmetry. It is not hemmed in by perfect circles or straight lines. When I look at nature — a tree perhaps — what strikes me is that its beauty comes not from its perfection, but from its essence. A tree can be nothing other than a tree. If it is in any way perfect, it is perfectly natural. It is not predictable or contrived. It is simply itself.

A real tree doesn’t look like a piece of construction paper cut with safety scissors, stacked triangles, or an arrangement of straight lines. Real trees have gaps, crooked boughs, and meandering roots. Real trees aren’t symmetrical. The trees in a forest do not resemble a military company standing in perfect rows and columns. They grow where they can.

Perfection is a contradiction of nature. When I seek perfection for myself — be it physical, relational, intellectual, et cetera — I do damage to and deny my nature, which is inherently not perfect.

Part of the beauty of nature stems from its defiance of perfection. Every sunrise or sunset is unique. The colors don’t meet in perfectly straight boundaries. They bleed and seep and dissolve into each other. It’s gorgeously messy. The peaks of a mountain range do not elicit awe because they are equidistant. The night’s sky is not impressive because each star is precisely the same distance from its neighbor. It is beautiful because it is chaotic, immeasurable, and majestic.

I’ve learned a lot by contemplating trees. They remind me that I do not (cannot and should not) need to be perfect to be me. It’s okay that I don’t have a flawless smile. Trees have crooked branches, and they do just fine. It’s okay that I’m not taller or thinner — or that I don’t look like her. Trees come in a variety of shapes and sizes and colors. And just as a tree doesn’t try to be the sun, the rain, or a cloud, I should not try to be someone else. I should not pursue someone else’s goals or standards. My only job is to be myself.

Even the most asymmetrical tree can make a good home for a bird. Even crooked branches can create shade for someone seeking respite from the sun. Trees produce fruits that are irregularly shaped but still delicious — unevenly colored, but still nutritious. These edible arboreal offerings are no less sweet just because they don’t look perfect. I too, just as I am, with my array of talents and shortcomings, can offer things that are good — friendship, generosity, compassion, and love.

Nature is wild and sprawling and imperfect. Anomalies are common. Living leads to blemishes. There is no life without aging or changing. I want to live in harmony with my humanity — even when it’s flawed and messy. Let the machines strive to be flawless. I don’t want to limit myself to straight lines, right angles, and precise circles.

I could try to cut out my faults and deny my deviations, but then I’d be like that construction paper tree — not dynamic or life-giving. I don’t want to chain myself to the pursuit of perfection. I want the freedom of being natural.

There is beauty in the wild, the irregular, and the unpredictable. Nature isn’t always neat, and neat isn’t always beautiful.

A version of this piece appeared on the blog Write Away as No One Is Perfect and Perfectly Natural.