Perfect?

Last Friday night, while sitting in the back of a limousine we'd paid too much money for at the Rose Festival auction, we talked about "perfect," whether you can see it, whether you can know it, and whether it's possible to make it happen. It got me thinking about things I call perfect, and wondering about the fact that while we tend to view perfectionism as the flawed behavior of nitpicking and quibbling, if it can also be something so simple as a belief that perfect is possible.

In college, we had a band director with an uncanny ability to set you on the path you most needed. Many people have stories. Mine involves the waning of my college days, when it became clear that my not-very-practical flute performance degree might not take me where I wanted to go (and frankly, I had no idea where that would even be.) Steve Paul was the one who walked me down the hall to the Oregon Bach Festival and handed me over as their new intern in the fundraising department. The rest is history.

Most band directors I know are perfectionists, seeking the perfect tone, pitch, line, and beat. It's understandable. It brings objectivity to a subjective discipline. And without some level of technique, you can't have a band. Yet that wasn't how Steve Paul did it.  Even though we earnestly practiced the music and drill every afternoon, we weren't practicing to be perfect. And we somehow knew it. We were doing something different -- seeking that place where technique and passion meet to serve up joy and celebration.

My senior year, we marched to an arrangement of the classic ballad He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother, which calls for a big, impressive company front finale.  We were on the field in our uniforms, performing the song, marching the drill, headed towards that moment when we all turn, shoulder to shoulder, horns to the sky, to step out together -- something we'd done so many times before.  Yet in that instant, on that one day, there was this brilliant ripple of energy that felt like everyone was completely connected to each other.

A few weeks ago, as we prepared to finish up our winter fundraising drive at OPB, we faced a sad early morning acknowledgement that it was simply not possible to reach our goal.  When you've done this for 15 years, you just know. The community wasn't quite with us this time, and the best we could do was stay positive, put our best effort forward and see how far we could get. Yet, less than two days later, as we stood in a huddle with 20 minutes to go until the deadline, we topped the goal.  Once again, I felt that overwhelming feeling of energy and connection.

Perfect is the only word that's ever seemed right to describe experiences like this. But here's the mystery. I have no idea whether we were perfectly in line or in tune on the field that day. I don't know whether anyone else felt what I did.  And I'd be willing to bet that a videotape of the performance would not reveal anything about what happened.  When I listen to the recordings from those inexplicable days of fundraising at OPB, I simply can't hear any of the supposed magic that created that singular experience of perfection.  They just sound like really good breaks. But I know it happened.

So until I become convinced otherwise, I choose to believe that you can see and know perfect, but you can't force it and you can't keep it. An elusive and unpredictable communion between the forces of perfectionism and the power of serendipity, all you can do is be ready to be dazzled when it comes along.

I can't wait to learn more about other people's version of perfect.