As I watch the cars and drivers during my trek to Connecticut each morning, a strange vision comes over me: Whatever imperfection I see in others is my soul’s justice arraigning imperfection in myself. It indicates the extent of my understanding that all things are perfect (see earlier entries), for hatred of imperfection proves the belief that it is real.
Since I am part of this mysterious creation, my faith in its Creator must define the nature of my relationship to it, and thus to myself. That is, if a genius infinitely beyond me claimed his invention to be perfect, that my own eyes saw as flawed, ought I to accuse its flaws or educate the deficiency in my vision?
If I can accept the flaws in my own being as beautiful and beloved within a greater scheme, suddenly everyone seems dear to me, and when I look on their bizarre activities, can only think to myself: “Yeah man, I know just how it is to be.”
But in case anyone thinks this love is a wish for stasis, the result is quite the opposite. It has been my experience that when you love someone enough, that even in your heart you don’t ask them to change, the power of such love causes all involved to change irrevocably.