Perfection
If the creator of all things is the one and only perfection in this world, then we, His creatures and subsequently, all our creations, can never be truly perfect.
But we do achieve or experience perfection to some degree. But it never stays long; it is always fleeting, which makes it all the more precious. In life, perfection only comes in moments.
I remember reading The Trouble with Thirteen when I was in high school, and the main character Annie was talking about a perfect moment. She was on their porch steps with her best friend and her dog, and they were quietly gazing at the street. At that moment, she knew that she wouldn’t have life any other way. All was perfect. Her dog was snoozing at her feet, she and her best friend were happy in their silent companionship, and the sun was quietly sinking in the horizon. But she was aware that everything could be ruined with just the tiniest gesture. Her friend might suddenly say something or her dog might suddenly wake up and the moment would fade away.
And it did. Her dog yawned and stretched its legs. Her best friend scratched her knee, got up, and said, “It’s getting late, I better go home.” And the main character is left alone, sitting on the steps with only a memory of that perfection.
One of my recent perfect moments happened a few weeks ago in Spanky’s pad. After badminton, Dex, Spanky, his nephew G and I went to the mall. Spanky and Dex bought speakers to achieve that home theater sound in their pad. Talissa was texting me that she wanted to have dinner with me. Originally, I planned to eat with Talissa while the three guys had their own dinner. But plans changed and we all ended up in the pad, with the newly installed speakers boasting of their potential.
Spanky and I prepared dinner while G played a wrestling game on playstation, while Dex tinkered with the speakers, and while Talissa made small talk. Somewhere between pan-grilling the chicken breast, boiling the potatoes, sautéing the sukiyaki-cut beef in onions, and putting the carinderia-bought rice and sinigang na bangus in bowls, I felt perfection creeping in. I quietly acknowledged its presence in my surroundings. I didn’t voice it out lest I scared it away.
By the time we set down the food, plates, and utensils on the small, dining table, I could feel my hairs standing on end. I felt sure that the universe would conspire to make this a perfect moment. Spanky asked G to put away his game and we switched to cable TV instead. I asked Dex if we could put on John Mayer’s live DVD instead, and he said he was thinking of the same thing.
We had dinner, peppered with quiet conversation, while John Mayer crooned in perfection from the shiny, new woofers. My senses were on a high. The sukiyaki was tender; the chicken, topped with cream cheese was heavenly; the sinigang provided the perfect, sour sabaw. When John finished his set, we put on Kenny Loggins. He sang Conviction of the Heart and reunited with Michael McDonald for a soulful rendition of What a Fool Believes. I felt like I was ready to burst. Everyone felt like family thought I wasn’t related to any one of them. Everything felt warm and cozy and perfect. I wouldn’t have life any other way.
But like all things, it ended. The food was eaten. The bowls and plates had to be put away and washed. The table was wiped clean. Talissa and I had to go home. Still, I didn’t say, “Wasn’t this a perfect dinner?” To say that was to acknowledge that the moment has passed. I could still feel the perfection in shimmering remnants; it was too early to let it go. It’s only now that I feel ready to share it with others.
Perfect moments are fragile and divine gifts. You’ll never know when they will come and you will never be prepared for them. But be prepared to remember them. Write them down, illustrate them or sing about them. For if you don’t remember them, then you’ll never experience perfection at all.
But we do achieve or experience perfection to some degree. But it never stays long; it is always fleeting, which makes it all the more precious. In life, perfection only comes in moments.
I remember reading The Trouble with Thirteen when I was in high school, and the main character Annie was talking about a perfect moment. She was on their porch steps with her best friend and her dog, and they were quietly gazing at the street. At that moment, she knew that she wouldn’t have life any other way. All was perfect. Her dog was snoozing at her feet, she and her best friend were happy in their silent companionship, and the sun was quietly sinking in the horizon. But she was aware that everything could be ruined with just the tiniest gesture. Her friend might suddenly say something or her dog might suddenly wake up and the moment would fade away.
And it did. Her dog yawned and stretched its legs. Her best friend scratched her knee, got up, and said, “It’s getting late, I better go home.” And the main character is left alone, sitting on the steps with only a memory of that perfection.
One of my recent perfect moments happened a few weeks ago in Spanky’s pad. After badminton, Dex, Spanky, his nephew G and I went to the mall. Spanky and Dex bought speakers to achieve that home theater sound in their pad. Talissa was texting me that she wanted to have dinner with me. Originally, I planned to eat with Talissa while the three guys had their own dinner. But plans changed and we all ended up in the pad, with the newly installed speakers boasting of their potential.
Spanky and I prepared dinner while G played a wrestling game on playstation, while Dex tinkered with the speakers, and while Talissa made small talk. Somewhere between pan-grilling the chicken breast, boiling the potatoes, sautéing the sukiyaki-cut beef in onions, and putting the carinderia-bought rice and sinigang na bangus in bowls, I felt perfection creeping in. I quietly acknowledged its presence in my surroundings. I didn’t voice it out lest I scared it away.
By the time we set down the food, plates, and utensils on the small, dining table, I could feel my hairs standing on end. I felt sure that the universe would conspire to make this a perfect moment. Spanky asked G to put away his game and we switched to cable TV instead. I asked Dex if we could put on John Mayer’s live DVD instead, and he said he was thinking of the same thing.
We had dinner, peppered with quiet conversation, while John Mayer crooned in perfection from the shiny, new woofers. My senses were on a high. The sukiyaki was tender; the chicken, topped with cream cheese was heavenly; the sinigang provided the perfect, sour sabaw. When John finished his set, we put on Kenny Loggins. He sang Conviction of the Heart and reunited with Michael McDonald for a soulful rendition of What a Fool Believes. I felt like I was ready to burst. Everyone felt like family thought I wasn’t related to any one of them. Everything felt warm and cozy and perfect. I wouldn’t have life any other way.
But like all things, it ended. The food was eaten. The bowls and plates had to be put away and washed. The table was wiped clean. Talissa and I had to go home. Still, I didn’t say, “Wasn’t this a perfect dinner?” To say that was to acknowledge that the moment has passed. I could still feel the perfection in shimmering remnants; it was too early to let it go. It’s only now that I feel ready to share it with others.
Perfect moments are fragile and divine gifts. You’ll never know when they will come and you will never be prepared for them. But be prepared to remember them. Write them down, illustrate them or sing about them. For if you don’t remember them, then you’ll never experience perfection at all.
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