As I sit underneath the redwood trees I contemplate the idea that people, no matter who they are, are perfect. It’s almost an abstract concept and in the abstract I get it. I even honor it and the thought makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. People are perfect.
But I’m sitting underneath the redwood trees and I haven’t seen another person in at least twenty-four hours, and I probably won’t see another person for another twenty-four, until I take a walk into town and probably interact with one or two.
It’s easy to know that all people are perfect when I am isolated from them. The true test of keeping this thought is in the everyday interaction with the folks at the grocery store, in traffic, at school or work or wherever. It’s not so easy living in a community where everyone is self-centered-rightiously right all of the time, even though they all have different opinions about the same thing, and keeping their perfection in the forefront of my mind. Sometimes I just want to smack a few of them.
But I don’t. Smack them, that is.
Instead I just watch them doing what they think is right, saying what they think is right, and accepting that as the perfection that they are in the moment. It’s all I can do.
And then I return to my spot underneath the redwood trees.