Writer Mom's Husband (may his tribe increase) hit a nerve for me yesterday.
Dystopia = Fear of Perfection.
I'm not saying that's what he's got, but I do, depending on the definition. My childhood understanding of perfection was that it was what you achieved in Heaven. A final state. Nothing more to learn or unlearn, all things open to your eyes.
That terrified me.
Like WMH I value the journey more than the goal; learning, teaching, helping, receiving, leading, following; all these seem so precious when compared to an unalterable state with nothing more to do or undo.
I wonder how many people out there accept the concept of a heaven and consciously write it off as a destination, imagining it as a place of ultimate stagnation.
I wonder how many of us fear that heaven will be hell.
But I was wrong. The richness, the beauty, the joy of imperfection is in the taste of awe, in the opportunity to marvel and feel so incredibly fulfilled when there's a happy ending or a silver lining or a reason for hope.
Yes hope is a traveller's armour - at the end of a journey there is nothing more to hope for, but hope is only a thin shadow of awe.
Glorious, marvellous - these are 'awe' words. That's why I believe that this life is play school; that heaven, or perfection, will not mean stasis but an eternal, empowered song of every shade of 'wow'.
Weepy movies, dawn light, children, even knowing you did right by someone and made things a little better for them, a genuine hug, knowing you played fair, knowing you didn't turn your back on others to look after number one - all these are tiny, playschool tasters of what is to come in University and beyond.
The things we value from this journey are like the chunky wax crayons that ME Strauss loves. They allow us to create, to express, to develop, but once we respect them, once we really understand them, well, I've heard then there's paints, and clay, and special paper and felt tips and inks that involve skill beyond our understanding. More and more and more.
I used to be terrified - not now.