Presence is Absolute. Perfection is Relative.
I don’t chase perfection. I enjoy nature and Nature is imperfectly perfect. Irregular petals, warped leaves with holes, and twisted trunks with scars are especially dear to me. They show character, they are the ones that survived. They might have weathered storms, been ravaged by seasons, yet their will to live, their beauty and grace brings me immense joy. I am also fascinated by the sacred geometry of a mandala, the seemingly perfect visual symmetry of an intricate mandala has a hypnotic allure that draws me in. But as a mandala artist, I also know for certain that if I were to really take things apart and examine each little component of a “perfect” hand drawn mandala, I would find smudges, shaky lines, warped petals, and imperfect circles. With practice, I have taught myself to accept these flaws and enjoy the process.
And even though I like to believe that I’ve made peace with imperfection, I can still be my harshest critic, especially when I begin to compare. In measuring my work or success against someone I believe is better than me, I have known moments when I have felt not good enough. But what affects me most are the opinions of those I respect and look up to. While their words of criticism, be they gentle or harsh, might inspire me to do more, be better, it also makes me put up my defenses, while simultaneously pushing me to strive toward an elusive standard of perfection. Just so I can win their approval and praise and feel that I am worthy. I think this is a trait most of us carry unconsciously within our layers of insecurity. Dropped only when we learn to trust and love ourselves unconditionally.
Have you ever found yourself doing that? Holding back from something you love because you worry you aren’t good enough? Maybe there’s a sketchbook you haven’t touched because it’s too pretty, and you only want to paint your “best” in it. Or maybe you love to sing, but you don’t because you’re ashamed to be out of tune or feel you aren’t as good as you ought to be. Telling yourself that you’ll start when you’re better, when you’re perfect.. you fail to answer the call of your spirit, missing out on what could bring you joy.
That is exactly how I used to think too, until I created my first yantra. It was a Kali Yantra. I was besotted with the Goddess. She was my muse, my inspiration and guide. I wanted to know her completely, wanted to meet her, live and breathe her. So I chanted her mantras, read books about her, meditated upon her, and then I learnt about her yantra. The idea of a geometric representation of my beloved Goddess was supremely fascinating to me.
I had been a mandala artist for more than a decade and loved sacred geometric art, but had never paid much attention to or worked with yantras, till now. The discovery that there was a sacred geometric composition that could bring me closer to my beloved filled me with glee. I poured myself into studying her yantra, and set about painting my first one, carefully following instructions I discovered in an ancient tantric text about the Goddess. Filled with excitement and joy, I painted the yantra black, red and gold – the colors of my Kali. I fell in love with the finished painting and set it up near the head of my bed along with a cherished copy of the Kalika Purana. To me it was the most perfect yantra I had seen and it felt as though the Goddess was alive within it, connected to me across time and space. Until one day, an experienced Tantra Scholar, a fellow goddess devotee and an adept at making yantras, pointed out a technical flaw in my construction: I had laid the petals incorrectly. My disappointment was sharp, and
because I respected his skill and wisdom, I felt as though my yantra was a failure. After -processing the feedback I made the decision to repaint and correct my mistake.
I shared my decision to repaint with this person and received a most wise and compassionate insight in response. I cherish the wisdom of this insight:
“Think of each yantra you create as a beloved child of yours. Look upon it with the gaze of a mother, to whom all her children are perfect, just as they are.”
This beautiful perspective shifted something within me. It felt as though the Goddess herself guided me, through this person. The yantra felt alive once again, perfect in its imperfection. The integrity of intent, honest emotions, love, and devotion that went into the making of that first yantra are what made it perfect.
This episode helped me realize that what matters most is Presence. Perfection is relative. It can be defined in infinite ways. The measure of perfection shifts depending on who’s looking and why. What is perfect in my eyes might be flawed in yours. But presence is absolute. When you can be fully present – body, mind, heart, and spirit – all your endeavours become perfect by virtue of pure presence.
When your intent is pure, when you show up in fullness and your focus is one-pointed, without letting doubt or distraction taint your effort, what flows out of you becomes an expression of perfection. There’s a certain joy, a sense of satisfaction that washes over you when you paint, sing, write, pray, or create with your whole being. When you are fully present. Effort like this nurtures the heart and connects you to the spirit and the very source of creation. You feel this connection and it is tangible even to others who experience your work. This connection is not something you have to ever chase. It is simply something you choose.
Embracing imperfection does not mean you stop working on yourself. Nor does it mean you stop learning and being curious. You do not stop chiseling yourself into the best you can be in each moment. But you stop waiting to be perfect in order to begin something.
What would it be like to give yourself permission to start? To do something simply because it will nourish your spirit? To trust that perfection will follow?
Perhaps it’s time to stop waiting.
Remember this: Presence nourishes. Perfection can follow.