Like most of us, I have been trying to “do my best” for most
of my life, but lately I’ve been looking at another way of living – a different
sense, you might say, of what doing my best might mean. As I was making a start
on this paragraph this morning, I caught sight of some clouds that were
shifting their shapes in the sky outside the window by my desk, and it occurred
to me that they were the best clouds they could possibly be. They weren’t
struggling or striving or working out ways to be the best; they simply were,
and always would be, as good as clouds could be. Even if they slipped off into
just wispy streams of whiteness, they would be the best possible wispy streams
of whiteness. I thought of this as I sat at my computer in my crumpled shirt
and dirt-stained pants, and it seemed like I was similar to those clouds, and
maybe just as marvelous as they always are. Maybe I don’t need to struggle so
sincerely to be the best I can be, because perhaps, in a sense, I always am.
Maybe my saggy shirt sags in the best ways possible, and maybe the dirt on my
pants is perfectly placed and displays the best possible shades of brown. If I
can’t seem to think of the finest words for this paragraph, perhaps, like those
always perfect clouds, I can confidently come up with words that will shine
with their own simple brightness. Maybe the best I can do is simply believe in
who I am at this mint-condition moment, and let each word do its own remarkable
work.
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