Commit to your own imperfections

As long as we try to transcend ourselves,

reach for the sky,

pull away from ground and into spirit,

we are heroes carved in stone.

We stand atop the pillar alone

blind to the pigeon’s droppings.

Do not try to transform yourself.

Move into yourself.

Move into your human unsuccess.

Perfection rapes the soul.

I was committed to becoming conscious

as quickly as possible.

Then suddenly, a black hole.

Chaos.

I knew the only solution

was to understand exactly

what was going on.

I read day and night for a week.

Bursting with knowledge,

I leapt into his office.

I knew what was wrong with me

and I knew how to cure it.

I spent the hour elaborating,

weaving profundities.

He wilted in his chair.

The more he wilted,

the faster I talked.

At the end of the hour,

he silently helped me on with my coat

and took me to the elevator.

With a twinkle in his eighty-year-old eyes

he pushed the button.

If I were you, Mrs. Woodman,

I would take my animus for a good drink.

I was so angry I didn’t even take him a muffin.

If we are trying to live by ideals,

we are constantly plagued

by a sense of unreality.

It is easier to try

to be better

than you are

than to be

who you are.

Perfection does not allow for feeling.

Perfection is not interested

in staying in the body.

It wants to fly,

wants ideals,

wants beauty,

wants truth,

wants light,

and you sure don’t get these here.

Perfection massacres the feminine.

Our culture pulses to the pressure of perfection.

To move toward perfection

is to move out of life

or never to enter.

She has foolproof recipes

for everything.

If strictly followed

(and to follow is to follow strictly),

they guarantee success.

Her real world is the world of things,

things that work efficiently.

She is impatient of error,

having no room for it;

there is no need for it.

Anyone learning under her jurisdiction

will be oriented from the start

to objects and goals,

clearly defined.

Her daughter knows herself as a thing,

thinks of herself as an object

designed for high efficiency.

She does not know

her mother’s knowledge

is not wisdom,

is without human meaning,

is without personal love.

Her daughter has no standpoint

of her own.

There is no danger

of her opening

to her own weeping.

There is no danger

of her singing

her own song.

Eventually we have to face the fact

that we are not God.

– Marion Woodman, Coming Home To Myself : reflections for nurturing a woman’s body and soul

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