So, I just watched an episode of Bull (The title of the episode is Bedside Manner). In this episode, a female columnist writes an article “What makes a man sexy? One who admits he can’t fix everything.” Yeah, that struck a chord with me.

So now, I’m dealing with this realization (or maybe it is a fear) that perhaps my spiritual journey is simply a cover for my obsession with my own perfection. If I can just attain enlightenment or be a stoic sage, then I can claim I have fixed everything. I will never get angry. I will be a beacon example to those around me, and all of their lives will be perfect.

My inner peace will save everyone around me. My family, my community, my country….millions will be inspired by my wisdom and equanimity! I will fix everything.

Was this a perfect throw? Look Closer.

Most of all, though, I will fix me. I will be perfect. Herein lies the ultimate dilemma, a true paradox. The only way I can ever hope to be perfect, is to admit that I am not perfect. It really is a living, breathing Zen koan. As my mouth moves and says, “I know that I will always be a work in progress,” my brain never really accepts it. It thinks, “you can get there eventually, just meditate harder, dammit!

For this reason, I still pedal in the cycle of Samsara.