The Jail Door of Perfection cracks open to a golden light
lit by candle lamps holding pink and purple blooms
sitting precariously on the tilt of tree stump coffee tables
with their life rings of experience rippling out.
Precarious laughter held so tightly finally spills on my lap
staining it and I am still alive
unpunished for my display, this eruption of glee
arising from my throat.
I didn’t know this room existed.
How did I escape?
How did I splatter onto these walls as pink and purple waves
splashing onto beige couches with plump, billowing pillows.
A dancer on stage whose shoulder strap breaks
as she quakes the stage floor with her frail strength,
a breast is exposed.
She flits away as if nothing happened.
Girls and women do that, you know.
Maybe making mistakes is how you grow and learn
to love yourself and others,
if you are not punished and derailed for them.
Could Source be growing and learning
from our mistakes, our tumbles and stumbles,
our messy imperfection?
Maybe, imperfection is perfection.
Could Heaven be right here on Earth, my grand daughter
gripping a tantrum of sand in her tiny hands?
I seep through into the room already softening like syrup.
Streaming onto the couch, sinking into the comfort,
I relax into this cloud of imperfection.
Jelly fingerprints from toddlers crumble the walls.
Crumbs from questioning child minds clutter the carpet.
Souls emerge like fingerprints from the stains.
This space lives and breathes and balances when I hold my breath.
I breathe out perfectly messy expressions and gestures.
We are just quirky souls moving quirky bodies through quirky space.
Then time dissolves when Source embraces the wrong turn into oncoming traffic.
The Light and the Shadows are ok here.
There is nothing wrong here in this living room.
I look back without turning my head
at what was once the iron bars
of the Jail House of Perfection.
Was Perfection just a virus that overtook a Universe
and then disappeared when we weren’t looking?