Iwas lying in bed the other night in the little apartment my husband, Peter, and I rent in Mexico, and thinking that things were perfect. Then I wondered what that meant.Because, without trying very hard at all, I could come up with things that were far from perfect—in the world, in the neighborhood, even in my body if I really started digging. But it did not prevent me from feeling that—at that moment, lying in bed, listening to the distant cacophony of noises outside my window—things were, in fact, perfect. I thought about my day and decided it had to ...