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Perfection: not here.

Ahhh… I just love this quote:

“ I must learn to love the fool in me–the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries. It alone protects me against that utterly self-controlled, masterful tyrant whom I also harbor and who would rob me of human aliveness, humility, and dignity but for my fool. ”

– Theodore I. Rubin

It’s no secret, I’ve been beating myself up a lot lately.  I’ve been questioning my tendency toward the impulsive.  I have more than once regretted my willingness to pour my heart out without censorship.  I speak without thinking.  I trust my gut.  I’m too energetic and speak too quickly.  I maybe too-often put more effort into entertaining than into informing.  And I have a tendency to be brutally honest whether you like it or not.  Sometimes I drink too much and say what I mean… even if it’s not pretty.

And I feel things… everything… deeply as well.  I have a huge capacity for love and compassion.  I’m too sensitive to the pain and discomfort of others.  I cry at everything from ASPCA commercials to episodes of Millionaire Matchmaker.  And a pathetic look from my chihuahua melts my heart.  Nothing in the world makes me happier than the content feeling of being near the people I love… to those whose intentions need no questioning. 

But I refuse to be disingenuously kind.  Dislike is something I feel strongly too.  Dishonesty is something I can’t stomache.  Betrayal provides me with such a capacity for hate that it surprises even me. 

At the end of the day, though, I love my “fool.”  I do.  My fool is me.  It’s what makes me know that I’m alive.  And I think I’m done beating her up.  And if you don’t love my fool, then you don’t love me either.


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