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?