There’s a bird that nests inside you,
Sleeping underneath your skin.
A Murder of One, Counting Crows.
For all these years, when I sing along with this excellent song off their debut album, I thought the words were “there’s a perfectness inside you, sleeping underneath your skin.”
The idea of a bird nesting inside us seems so much better than perfection.
Perfection is a myth.
Perfection is a false idol.
Perfection is the enemy of getting things done.
Never going to achieve it.
Never going to have it.
No such place.
What if instead of seeking perfection, we seek to find the bird that nests inside us.
The falcon, the owl, the hawk, the oriole, the eagle, the robin.
Instead of searching for perfection, we sought to find that which will allow us to soar.
To be our best, strongest, fiercest self.
From the inside out.
Perfection is, ultimately, a cop out.
An excuse for inaction.
If we can’t be perfect, why even try?
But if we find that bird nesting inside us, we can take flight.
To see the world from a new vantage point.