According to one dictionary, something is perfect if it “lacks nothing essential to the whole” and is “complete of its nature or kind”. By this definition, every present moment is perfect. Each one contains everything necessary to make it what it is. Each one, we might say, is flawless and pristine for that particular instant in history. I may wish a particular moment was different than it is, but it’s foolish to wish a moment was better than it is. For that specific point in time, a moment is just right, just the thing, just what the doctor ordered, just what it is. What’s wonderful is that all I have stretching ahead of me into infinity is one perfect present moment after another.
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