Why? (2026)
As machines become more and more efficient and perfect, so it will become clear that imperfection is the greatness of man.
—Ernst Fischer, Memories and Reflections (1969)
I wrote the post below back in 2010 and have reshared it here a couple of times over the years. I thought it might be worth revisiting this morning and maybe adding a bit here and there. It’s been sixteen years since I first wrote this and, being imperfect, am sure there are flaws in it that I might be better equipped to recognize now and correct.
Eh, maybe not. Let’s give it a shot, anyway.
I’ve wondered about the concept of perfection for some time, given the way some folks are always going on about it and trying to reach some form of it. Nobody wants to freely admit that they are imperfect. Maybe even a mass of them.
Not me, of course. Quite some time back, I came to that conclusion that perfection is not a human quality, that we are defined by our imperfections and the manner in which we cope with them. How we adapt and compensate for all the areas in which we are lacking is a basic survival skill, one that defines us.
And that’s somewhat what the quote above says, as I read it.
When I read it, it struck me at once, but I had never heard of the writer, Ernst Fischer. Looking him up, I found him to be an Austrian Marxist writer/journalist born in 1899 who waved the banner for Stalinist policies for many years but in his later years– he died in 1972– Fischer came to regret his past. His memoir of his life began with a chapter that was titled Was That Me?, indicating his astonishment at looking back and seeing the many phases and changes he went through in his life.
I think most of us could start our own memoirs with that same first chapter title.
I know I could, even though I feel that I am very much the same at the core now as I was in my earlier days. However, my actions were not always consistent with that core and didn’t really reflect well on me. I did some things that were–how should I put this? — less than perfect.
I was then, and am now, a walking exhibition of flaws, imperfections.
As are we all. At least, that applies to everyone I know. I say that without judgement and with affection.
Maybe it’s when we recognize the sort of person we want to be that we begin to alter our actions to what we are at our core. If we can bring the two into alignment, there is an easing in ourselves, a relaxing of tension. Life then becomes somewhat easier to swallow.
In the 2010 version of this I wrote that our imperfections then become less evident, not worn on our sleeves for all to see. 16 years of being imperfect have brought me to a different conclusion. When the person we wish to be starts to align with what we are in our core, I think our imperfections are just as evident as they were in the earlier versions of ourselves. The difference is that the earlier us felt shame at these imperfections and tried desperately to cover them up. The later version feels less shame and is less afraid to wear them on full display, mainly because they know that is a futile effort.
They know then that we are a mass of imperfections and to deny them is to deny part of who and what we are.
I’m not talking about trying to acquire imperfection. No, I mean that we just try to recognize the flaws that make up each of us and to accept them. Life is in toleration- of others as well as of ourselves. And in adapting to and overcoming our shortcomings.
How we learn to wear our imperfections on our sleeves in a comfortable way.
Please bear with me here. One of the negative aspects of doing a daily blog is that I often post things as though I were writing them in a journal, unedited and just as they fall out of the mind. They are not always fully realized thoughts or ideas and will soon be questioned in my own mind.
It’s like reading an old journal written when much younger and wondering, “What was I thinking there?” or, echoing Fischer, “Was that me?”
You hope that, as we age and gain experience, that this is a less frequent happening in our lives. But writing in this public forum, forcing out words each day, it sometimes reappears. One’s imperfections become apparent.
Phew! I don’t know what I just said here and I don’t really want to reread it so I’ll let it hang out there for now, flawed though it may be. Someday in the near or distant future I just know I’ll read it and ask myself, “Was that me?”
Well, it’s sixteen years later and that question is still with me. Some days it is about something I did or said just days before. I feel like I am closer to the person I want to be now than even a mere 10 or 16 years ago but we never stop asking that question since our aim is an ever-changing target. The closer we get to it, the more we realize that maybe we could be more. Or at least, that’s the hope.
Okay, I have to run. I am also sharing a song from Nick Drake, whose work I have shared a few times over the years. I wrote this about earlier: Nick Drake seems to have created echoes with his music in this manner. He recorded three albums from 1969 to 1972 that never really found an audience at the time. He tragically died from an overdose of antidepressants in 1974 at the age of 26. In the years since, his work has gained that audience that eluded him during his short lifetime and has a cult following. His songs have a unique quality that draws me in but is hard to pin down.
He never really got ask himself the question: Was that me?
I am sharing his song, Pink Moon. I was planning on sharing the new small piece at the top, Why?, and thought this song would be a good match.
After all, wouldn’t a red sun create a pink moon?
Redtree Times 