Introduction to "Imperfect Offerings"

I've found that writing--the trying to get published part--feels sometimes like gambling. There's that rush you get when you imagine that the next accepted pitch or essay published; the next contest won or grant or agent or contract secured will lead to lights flashing, bells ringing, drinks and food and fans on the house: the perfect life and even more seductive, the perfect self. I guess you don't have to be a writer to indulge the addictive pursuit of perfection-or to suffer its consequences. In whatever arena the ideal of being perfect takes root, from one's hair, to one's children, despair sprouts--at least for me, and I dare say for you too. Perfection doesn't square with being human.

I've never had the audacity/neurosis-call it what you will-to believe I'm perfect in the present moment; still, until five years ago, I assumed that at some future point, with the unspecified number of degrees earned, publications logged, pounds lost, or crushes inspired, my perfection would emerge. Somehow in my imaginings, once achieved, this perfection would never be challenged by illness, age-or, as has actually occurred, by the undoing power of love.

Then our second child, Anton, was born and diagnosed with mosaic Down syndrome, a rare form. My first thought was purely selfish: now my life, and me, myself, will never be perfect. I'd waited too long to have children, a mistake-(or so I falsely believed then)--and I had been permanently exposed. For months the thought I will never be perfect haunted me. Then it dawned: how free I felt-how off the hook. As my patience with everyone, including myself, expanded, "I will never be perfect" became my mantra, my inspiration, my peace. I'm saying it now, between writing each line of this post.

Epiphanies of all sorts followed. Here's one: my daughter with her temper, my son with his "low tone", my husband with his blunt ways, do not have to be perfect to be perfect for me. And vice versa-that's another.

After one too many rejections, I'm still tempted to google myself to shore up my accomplishments. Other days, I'm transfixed by my emails, waiting for or (more pathetically) rereading those acceptances that can never change my life. Frequently my son steps in to guide me in my rocky recovering from perfectionism. Anton, age 5, loves to talk and his expressions are dramatic, emotional, and compelling; he struggles with articulation, however. When he doesn't get the full attention he needs (and deserves), he demands it. "`Puter off!" he'll tell me, grabbing my chin and rotating my face towards his. He watches my eyes as I listen. He watches my lips as he hears me respond. "Your lips chapped?" he asked me the other day after I'd repeated a no doubt confused version of his Super-Man story. Before I could answer, he added, "I love your lips, Mom."

Imperfect as I am, in moments like this I can't imagine ever feeling better.

My life as a parent is one inspiration for this blog "Imperfect Offerings," however my posts will go beyond anecdotes about my family to share narratives, commentaries, interviews, and occasional reviews that explore the message of Leonard Cohen's "Anthem." It's one of those songs that can make you cry and hope in equal measure. In a growled prayer, Cohen exhorts us to,"Ring the bells that still can ring; forget your perfect offering; there is a crack in everything; that's how the light gets in." What a sharp understanding of what it means to be human. I am excited to share the insights of people who thrive in the face of their human limitations, whether these are exposed to them through chosen experiences (like extreme sports) or involuntary ones (like illness and disability). I can never get enough of stories about how and what the light gets through--and about the precious qualities of that light.