To me it’s my husband walking through the door every evening and seeing perfection in me even if I’m dressed in the sloppiest of attire with no make up as I usually am.
It’s him telling me he’s so grateful I settled for him when it’s really the other way around.
It’s seeing the awe and wonder of water running in the creeks around our house, and when you can’t go outside it’s the awe and wonder of feeling water at least in one shower when it’s frigid outside and the water has froze in the other pipes. It’s, while taking a shower, appreciating the tile work that my husband did and that he let me design. It’s thinking about how much we take for granted and what the pioneers before us went through to make it all possible.
Perfection is in the senses of the beholder. There is a section of the kitchen that has taken on a pungent smell of mixed spices that somehow reminds me of another lifetime, where or when I don’t know, but it’s pleasant.
Perfection is simplicity. It’s seeing, smelling, touching, hearing and tasting in a moment of presence. It’s appreciating the moment.