Rich ManThe treasures are not in wealth but in riches, and riches are everywhere ...

"I sometimes convince myself that it's easier to keep a dream safely tucked away in my back pocket than to fit another failure in my front pocket." - Me, less than one week ago. We'll get back to this ...

I'm feeling a little conflicted on a hopefully thoughtful, thoughtfully hopeful Monday morning in March.

Maybe you can help me sort some things out. Maybe spending some time here with you will help me quiet the hornet's nest enough to gain some additional clarity toward this new perspective I've been working so hard to perfect.

But is perfection really the goal? Should it be? That's a daunting bar to set, as it is one that is so rarely cleared. Does that, in fact, set us up for failure and a further retreat into the vacuum of hesitancy to try again?

I only ask because it has been that way with me for a very long time. A lifetime, to be as real as realistically real can be real.

How real is that? Pretty real, if you ask me. But you didn't ask me; I'm asking you.

I told you I was feeling conflicted. That's nothing new in the thought chamber, but confliction with conviction sometimes leads to enlightened prediction.

And I'm banking on this being one of those times, psychobabble be damned.

Perhaps excellence, and not perfection, should be the ultimate prize for the mind's eyes to idealize. If we strive for excellence in being the best we can possibly be, the potential suddenly becomes much more attainable. If we can also recognize our limitations and grant ourselves the patience of working within them, the concept of bettering ourselves to the point of overcoming these limitations takes on achievable realism.

The bar doesn't seem quite so high, and our souls (and fragile egos) don't risk as many broken bones should we fail to clear it.

If we then - by way of fate, accident, or otherwise - do find ourselves realizing that elusive gift of perfection, however we envision it, that's a bonus feather in the metaphorical cap. How colorful can we then become?

But how is perfection even defined, since it is a term entirely subjective to personal circumstances, standards, and desired outcomes? That answer rests on a sliding scale of variables determined by the individual, most often influenced by comparing ourselves to others we wrongly perceive to have it all figured out.

The truth is, nobody really has it all figured out. Nobody.

I used to think much differently about this, ignorantly believing others were so much further ahead of me because of the way they portrayed themselves, or I thought they portrayed themselves. I gathered their lives were so perfect compared to mine and that I was somehow failing because they had "that" and I had ... "this."

They went right and I went left.

They had kids and I wrote songs.

They buckled down and settled down; I forever roamed in search of myself and where I could feel a sustained sense of purpose.

They made it all look so easy while I struggled to do the most basic things that should have been so simple in a perfect world.

But there it is again, that ever so intrusive label of what "should be" that limits and diminishes the potential of "what is."

Perfection - it's such an illusion that can leave us feeling less-than and needlessly incomplete if we allow it. And then what? We're left sitting in an existential chasm, trying to convince the cat that we've got it all under control despite the fact that we're talking to ourselves again.

Or is that just me? Did I just divulge a little too much information there?

Did I type that out loud?

Let me be perfectly clear - I don't do that. I swear.

My cat thinks I am an intriguing, well-adjusted artist chock full of grit and gusto who has shit locked down with righteous strides and stalwart vibes. I may be wrong, but I think I have her fooled. As long as I don't stray too far from the feeding schedule, all is well on that front.

Where I'm at right now is a place of intense reckoning. I know, and my writing has reflected it, that I've been consumed by a place of loss for a few years. That's really not the way I chose it, at least consciously; it's just what happened. This catatonic mindset was a byproduct of a chapter in which losses seemed to come at a record pace, leaving me reeling and trying to find solid ground among the waves.

It also left me very afraid. That's a tough thing for me to admit, especially since I was afraid long before that.

Especially since that fear has, to varying degrees, had me forever locked in a chokehold behind sometimes lying eyes.

Argumentative people, of course, would argue that I, in fact, did choose that mindset. But that's what argumentative people do - they argue, sometimes just for the sake of argument.

That's a hell of a lot of arguing and brain-drain, is it not? You've been there ... we all have, and it simply matters very little. The suggestion of right or wrong in this forum is also subjective. Winners and losers are one and the same when it comes to walking a line of personal discovery. It's the destination that determines the label, as much as labels suck.

If you learn, you win. If you don't, hopefully you have another chance to learn. Mother of God, I didn't say lose.

Hallelujah ... I'm cured. 

To be fair and give the dissentors their due, though, maybe they are right. On some cosmic, hocus-pocus tilt of universal proportions, perhaps I did unwittingly opt into that darkness. Could it have been easier to isolate myself in a place where obeying the stifling fear of taking risks eliminated the potential of any further loss I felt incabable of handling?

Could it have been my soul's autopilot way of protecting my heart and healing my mind? Possibly so.

But you know what? Obeying the fear of failure is also rejecting any hope of success, which is something I'm learning in this journey to recreate myself and rebuild my life. While healing is necessary, dwelling too long in a dimly lit room includes an imminent danger of incarceration and defeatist's sensation of institutionalization.

A stunting realization. It can also ruin that special vision you have when your eyes are closed, no matter how many mental carrots you eat.

I was asked by a good friend of mine last week why I found it so hard to pursue some of the dreams that have transpired out of the recent stretch of trials, knowing deep down I have the tools needed to make them a reality. After some careful consideration, I thought I was being Philosopher Phil with my straightforward answer ... 

"I sometimes convince myself that it's easier to keep a dream safely tucked away in my back pocket than to fit another failure in my front pocket," I said thoughtfully. (I told you we'd get back to this)

"Check," I thought to myself.

Not missing a beat, he instantly blew this out of the water, insisting (and I'm paraphrasing), "Based on that logic, you're completely leaving out the most realistic outcome, which is a level of success."

Checkmate.

This is absolutely correct. I hold onto the possibility of my goals like a life preserver, because it provides me with a sense of security knowing they are still there. At the same time, just holding onto them this way doesn't give them any opportunity to become realities, and my fear of them becoming more percieved failures prevents me from taking steps to make them happen.

Should they not turn out just "perfect," I have lost them forever. See, this is what I'm talking about regarding that dark room. Everything becomes black or white ... you become colorblind. I automatically fear the another failure or loss. I afford no credence to success if it isn't exactly how I envision it.

But what exactly have I failed at, and what have I lost in contrast to the blessings I'm so blindly overlooking?

Yes, I lost a job as a writer that meant so much to me and was so much more than just a job. But it wasn't a failure on my part, and I didn't lose my ability to write. In fact, the experience, connections and confidence I got from my years of doing it have only paved the way for what I'm doing now.

And it could also be said that it was taken off my plate to make room for the future, and the skills honed have been instrumental. I should consider myself blessed to have had the experience, and doubly blessed to have found my "voice" again.

Perfect? No. Excellent? Yeah, I would say it has its excellent qualities.

I have looked at my relationship with my dad under a microscope since he's been gone and how I wish it wouldn't have been so strained for so long. But in doing so, I'm overlooking the fact that we really got to know each other well in the end and I was there.

Perfect? No. But there was an excellence in the blessing of how it all played out.

There's so much more, but I would risk boring you to shreds if I continued. I think you get the point, just as I think I'm starting to get it as well. Keeping sight of the light is an ongoing battle, but it's one worth fighting for the sake of keeping on keeping on.

Through it all, I can say I have some of the best friends I could possibly ask for. I have a great family that is always there.

I've lived, and continue to live, a very blessed life. I've had some incredible experiences with some incredible people, and this has made me a very rich man in terms of what really counts.

So did I really lose myself as I thought I did, or was I simply being prepared for a better version of myself? I believe it's the latter, just as I believe trials give us all the empathy we need to better connect to one another in a better place.

I have all the tools I need to go wherever I would want to go. And I know as long as I keep in mind that excellence is better than perfection, I stand a much better chance of getting there without fear.

We all do.

Wherever "there" is.

In the end, the excellence of our blessings is all we really have.

With the proper gratitude and willingness to pay it forward, we may even reach perfection.

I'm feeling a little less conflicted on a hopefully thoughtful, thoughtfully hopeful Monday afternoon in March. Thank you for the ears and the eyes.

Stay excellent ...