Christopher stared at his reflection above the pond. The water was a still, flat, flawless mirror. He raised one eyebrow and then the other, admiring the perfection, not of himself, but of the structure. His eyes trailed around the pond's rolling edges, uneven, and imperfect. Yet within its boundaries, its surface was impeccable.
Rolling his head from left to right he marvelled at the detail. Was it the lighting of the mid-morning Sun? How was this pond able to achieve such definition in such a substandard frame? How could he do the same for his clients? For himself?
The reflection furled its eyebrows, Christopher was surprised, he hadn't realised he was scowling. With a splash his fingers struck his watery nose. The shattered image rolled into perfect waves, that were part of perfect circles, over top an imperfect image. Until all settled as it was, indifferent and content, returning the rays back to the Sun.
An exhale hung in front of him like a ghoul. Fall was almost here, as was his birthday. It was his therapist who'd suggested, amongst a myriad of wu-wu self help books that Christopher had no intention of reading, to take himself for walks to clear his head. 'Baby steps are fine,' Christopher scoffed again as her words echoed across his mind. He wondered if she'd meant it as an insult? He wondered if wondering if the word baby was intended as a slight was in itself childish.
Frustrated, Christopher returned his attention back to the water. The surface was rigid and taut again, which he liked. His client wanted radical curves and dramatic asymmetry, which went against his personal ethos as an architect. Everyone had their preferences, and his were as calculated and stern as his designs. Unfortunately the owners of the firm Christopher worked for demanded his customer service be as balanced as his blueprints. He was learning to compromise. Or at least learning to pretend to.
There was something to this pond. Something about the distribution of chaos and order that cradled the water to a soft equilibrium that had escaped him before. The more he looked the more Christopher realized he'd never been offended by anything natural, nor found it displeasing. Why was it that imperfections in the works of other designers and artists bothered him so much, but not in nature? What was it about the human touch that demanded such standards?
Christopher's therapist said perceived imperfections might be an issue with how he accepted himself, as much as it was how he saw the world. Christopher found that infuriating. She also said that perhaps his definition of perfection was in itself flawed. Which seemed ludicrous. Perfect was perfect, how could there be any other opinion?
And yet.
Sitting here, above the calm pond, this felt, well, he loathed to use the word again, let alone think it, but there it was. This was perfect. Christopher couldn't admit to himself that his views and attitudes on perfection could be even remotely wrong. He also was aware he was performing mental gymnastics, and had no intention of stopping. It's not that he wouldn't change things around the water, he could see where aesthetic improvements might be made. But the more he looked at the wavy edges the more he realized that while the angles weren't 'right,' as in 90º, but they were 'right' as in correct for the space. And given the chance, he wouldn't square it. Nor would he attempt to create a perfect circle. In the same way he embraced the uneven twists, Christopher could accept his previous perspectives were right in their overall intention, in intentions of balance.
Slow, he let his eyelids drop, and brought forth his first drafts of the home in question. For the first time, he zoomed out, thinking beyond his client’s property and its surroundings. What the horizon looked like, the indigenous flora of the area, how the home might fit amongst the landscape, how he could apply his client's froofy, new age words to something both structurally sound, and beautiful. How he might make this new thing look not only that it belonged, but as if it had always been.
Calculations spun, and flipped as Christopher blinked his eyes open, wincing in the sunlight. Dusting himself off he sat on a nearby bench, and retrieved a sketch book and pen from his bag. The puzzle wasn't solved, though, while he hadn't noticed it yet, his mood had been.
Thanks for reading!
-Mr. Write
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