This morning I looked out of window debating whether to go for my walk on the patch or stay in bed a bit longer. ‘Nah’ I thought, I don’t fancy it. Last week’s crisp, bright winter wonderland had given way to that unholy quintet of gloom - wind, mud, rain, grey and cold.
But what perversely swayed me to step outside was the fact that it wasn’t just horrible it was spectacularly horrible, comically horrible, perfectly horrible.
The word ‘perfectly’ to describe a bad thing is usually used for emphasis - ‘horrible indeed’. But what if it literally is *perfect* in its horribleness.
perfect wind
perfect mud
perfect rain
perfect grey
perfect cold
No less a morning than a bright snowy one, a birdsong-filled spring one, a lazy hot summer one. The morning, the day, the weather – they just get on with things being themselves – oblivious to our labels, our likes and dislikes.
This reminded me of the story I’d heard about the writer Henry David Thoreau - author of Walden. He died of tuberculosis aged 40 – apparently a very vivacious man, as alive and happy in illness as he was in health. His sense of well being was untouched by external circumstances.
His sister wrote , “he remarked to me that there was as much comfort in perfect disease as in perfect health, the mind always conforming to the condition of the body.”
He regarded his disease as “perfect” – an extraordinary act of acceptance and equanimity.
So I went for the windy, muddy, rainy, grey and cold walk. It was horrible and it was perfect
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