As I live, I continue to make mistakes, too often to count. But what is a mistake? If something that detracts from a desired state or outcome, perhaps my desire is what frustrates me. To
Ilm a mistake is a mistake, and one rightly tries to avoid it the next time; toIrfán, even mistakes have value.
I am what I am. Is this the only truth I can aspire to? I do the wrong things, say the wrong things, but my being remains. Who do I make my choices for? What is it I don’t already have? Maybe nothing at all. Then all of these mistakes are a part of something: being right is a vain hope. Trying “to be” is what makes living hard! – though not trying can leave us without a sense of purpose.
Perhaps there is something wholly different, which is its own purpose. Is life itself the meaning of life? Is the real art the depth of our appreciation? It would be like a story where nothing makes sense at first, but afterwards everything starts to come together. Are we players on a stage, unknowing, the play itself a mystery? As the acts unfold we unwittingly play our part, choosing between alternate endings written by another Hand. If the purpose of the play is to educate and entertain, sometimes it does so by appearing foolish. Shouldn’t I be laughing at the farce of my own life?
In fact, I am beginning to think it is better to fail in our efforts toward spirituality and have to ask for forgiveness, than to succeed and feel no need to call on God, because whereas the former leads to humility, an understanding of our powerlessness, and the development of a bond between Creator and creature, the latter too easily breeds a false sense of independence along with a concept of “self-perfection” which exists apart from Him. Better to have both; but if not, better to have Him.