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Waking up to old feelings that feel far away, a memory, but also a present echo, a habit. Waking up each day inside my life, as I know it to be, feeling the echos of what was, merging into what is, and rippling into what will be.

What happens first is I state, “This moment is perfect”, but my mind then puts that statement under scrutiny. “How can this anger be perfect”? “how can this fear be perfect?” “How can this confusion be perfect”? I have to back up. Can’t be a question, because there’s no justification, there’s just a surrender.

The notion of perfection is a confrontation with dis-ease. How can a shooting be perfect? How can another part of my bike being stolen be perfect? Mr. Rogers said his mother told him to look for the helpers. The perfection of the awakening of one’s compassion to help, and serve. That will always be perfect. The rise of one’s heart’s desire to love and comfort will always be perfect regardless of what the trigger was.