My wife, Kate, observed recently that she will be glad when September comes to Menorca, because the temperature will moderate, as will the humidity, and the crowds and the traffic will disperse. And then, after a pause, ‘But I’ll be sad because people will have left!’ Well, some people will have left; it’s not until late October or November that visitors/tourists really become thin on the ground. But she has a point: wishing for one thing might invoke less desirable consequences. And that’s a part of the human condition: we often fail to appreciate fully the repercussions of our actions, decisions, or even wishes, because none of us has a full understanding of the universal context in which we live. How could we? That means that we have to live our lives with recognition of the imperfection imbedded in most of what we think, say, or do. It ought to instil a certain amount of humility in us, but I am not sure that this is always the case. Human beings have an innate capability to live in denial about things that make us uncomfortable!

A few years after the death of Leonard Cohen, the Canadian who was a writer, poet, and musician, his son, Adam was interviewed, having edited and published a collection of his father’s final writings. Adam said of his father that he was preoccupied with the brokenness of things, the asymmetry of things. He pointed out that in Leonard Cohen’s now most famous song, Hallelujah, ‘It doesn't matter what you heard, the holy or the broken hallelujah.’ So Leonard was always preoccupied with the idea of the imperfection of things - for example, from another song, Anthem: ‘Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in.’

The beguiling draw of perfection is in many ways both distracting and destructive. One obvious manifestation of this is the debate about physical appearance, and the way in which beauty is portrayed in advertising and entertainment, to the extent of causing psychological damage to (mostly, but not exclusively) young girls. Another example is the way in which we place political and social leaders on a sort of pedestal, and then delight in joining a marauding mob to tear them down when their flaws are revealed.

Of course, it does not have to be that way. The now-retired Bishop of New Westminster in Canada used to begin his sermons by saying, ‘I speak to you as a sinner before sinners; as one beloved of God before the beloved of God.’ I always thought that was a rather cool way of acknowledging our common fallibility, together with our communal sharing of being made in the image of God.

Acknowledging our imperfections can be liberating. Relinquishing any expectation of perfection, allowing that we do not have to be perfect as individuals, reminds us that we depend upon one another - or, turning towards the spiritual side of things, that we depend upon our Creator (who in turn encourages us to recognise our interdependence on one another and the world around us). The Bible, for example, is full of examples of God using flawed and imperfect individuals and situations to accomplish divine purposes. Despite our limitations and brokenness, embracing our imperfections can lead to spiritual growth and closer connection with God.

Going back to Leonard Cohen:

‘It's going to be September now for many years to come, 


many hearts adjusting to that strict September drum.


I see the ghost of culture with numbers on his wrist


salute some new conclusion that all of us have missed. 


So let's drink to when it's over, and let's drink to when we meet.


I'll be waiting on this corner where there used to be a street.’

Those are the concluding lines of Leonard Cohen’s poem, A Street. He started writing it shortly after the attacks of 11 September 2001 and it was published first as a poem in 2009 (for someone who embraced imperfection and cracks that let the light in, he could be relentless in his pursuit of perfecting his words and songs!). The lyrics of the song, released in 2014, are slightly different from the poem, but it conjures up the fallout from a divided world. He told The Daily Telegraph, ‘When I say “the party's over but I've landed on my feet. I'm standing on this corner where there used to be a street,” I think that's probably the theme of the whole album. Yeah, the scene is blown up, but you just can't keep lamenting the fact. There is another position. You have to stand in that place where there used to be a street and conduct yourself as if there still is a street.’

We certainly live in a divided world that seems even more polarised than when Leonard Cohen wrote A Street. His prediction that the attacks of September 2001 and their repercussions would cast a long shadow over years to come has been validated, because a sort of Pandora’s Box was opened, in which fear and mistrust, alienation and anxiety, prejudice and bigotry, to name but a few, were lurking. In the 24 years since, there has been plenty of exploitation of all of those, creating an environment in which it has been all too easy to amplify suspicions and divisions. Sadly, it looks as though there may be more dark days ahead as events in the world unfold with dire consequences.

Yet, like the original Pandora’s Box, the contents include hope. That September (2001) produced many examples of kindness and generosity, of perseverance and resilience. Challenging times offer us opportunities for us to lift ourselves to a higher plane. The humility to be evoked by acknowledging our fallibility can lead us to be open to change and new ways of seeing things. The imperfections of our lives might be cracks that enable many different forms of light to get in, whether it be divine light, or the light of shared human compassion and love. The Septembers of our lives may present us with loss, but they may also lead us into milder times and climes.