Perfect days are those in which the weather forecast says “it will rain” and it does rain: not the others, when we carry a raincoat and an umbrella here and there, until we lose one of them or both at the same time.

Perfect days are those in which all the watches are certain: the pulse watch, the kitchen clock, the one of the church, only excepting the ones in the watchmaker´s shop, because the funny thing about these is that they all mark different times.

Perfect days are those in which the tires do not get empty; the streets have one or two holes repaired, at least; the buses do not come over us, honking and in the opposite direction; and the traffic lights are not stalled…

Perfect days are those in which nobody steps on our shoes, or comes up with a basket and trip in our socks, or, if that happens, is a million times sorry, a habit that goes missing with a lot of speed.

Perfect days, those in which we return home and find it intact, in the same place.

And intact are our sad bones, and we can sleep in peace, quiet and happy as if we went back from a little walk through the rings of Saturn.

*  *  *

The chronicle of Cecilia Meirelles speaks of our desire for everything to be always where it should be.

We are beings of expectations. We hope of life, of the other, of things, of everything. And every time something does not match one of our expectations, we get angry, just like spoiled children.

Frustration, disappointment, disillusionment. How much we demonstrate these feelings…

We want to have it all under control, under our control.

However, let us imagine every being on the planet wanting the same thing: would that equation close?

In the same way, which is perfect for us may not be perfect to another person. How would we solve this situation? Who would have priority in a Universe that is fair?

Let us not create too much expectation. Let life surprises us. Let us expect everything and do not expect anything.

People do not think like us and the Universe is not to our mercy to be simply satisfying our whims here and there.

The beauty of life is, many times, exactly what we call imperfections. The poet had seen it in the clocks marking different hours in the watchmaker´s  shop.

Someone more practical could ask: But what are these watches for if they do not mark the right time?

The poet would respond: How about losing yourself in time, once in a while, without knowing which clock is right, which clock is wrong? After all, what is the time?

The beauty of life is to see perfection in the days; even if they have been nothing than we expected of them. It is finishing each day, between the dawn and dusk, a bit more mature, more aware, more perfect, because it is our own perfection that we should seek.

We will see that, as we become more perfect, the days will also be, regardless of how they arise. We will change the lens that sees them, simply.

Perfect days: we will make.

Spiritist Moment Team, based on a parto f the chronicle Perfect Days,
by Cecilia Meirelles, from the book Crônicas para jovens, publisher Global.
March 12.2018.