Point of Perfection

Perfection is very small. Imperfection is vast. This is the dance.

When we feel anxious about the state of the world, it is because we look through too wide a lens. The universe is not painted with a large brush, but with the tip of a hair.

Usually they tell us to see the big picture. I say, break down the big picture into its tiniest pixels, and see perfection everywhere. Each moment, a thousand opportunities for small acts of kindness surround us, the sacraments of which a whole world may be composed.

The most infinitesimal photon, though existing for a fraction of an instant, is virtually infinite in charge. This is a fact of quantum energy. Your body is made from pure radiant dust-motes of infinity.

See the world as a Pointillist painting by a master Impressionist. When in doubt, reduce creation to the Ayn Soph, אין סוף, the dimensionless dot at the heart of every particle.

Look under a blade of grass into the kingdom of the ladybug. Gaze at a raindrop on the tip of a fern. Cut open a ripe pomegranate - the wounded whole a cornucopia that gushes delicious disorder, yet each tiny seed a spheric jewel of ruby sweetness.

Your body appears to be aging, bruised, wrinkled or broken in places. Yet every cell performs its allotted duty, packed with busy molecules that know their work, atoms obeying with precision the destiny of their chemical mass and charge.

Sink even deeper, beyond Planck's Constant: be in the wildering world of quantum uncertainty. Here is the most delightful order of all, the order of perfect chaos, where the milk-ocean of love churns its own vacuum with fluctuations of pure mathematical probability.

In this playful quintessence of the void, Shiva watches the dance of his beloved Shakti. She is the spontaneity of this moment, the quality of Nowness. Shiva's wonder is the very substance of matter.

We are only confused because we exist in the bedazzlement of their kiss.