I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection.

Host: The clockmaker’s workshop glowed with the soft, amber light of late evening. Tiny gears and springs were scattered across the table like fragments of time itself. The air was thick with the scent of oil, brass, and quiet concentration. Through the half-open window came the distant hum of the city — life moving imperfectly beyond the rhythm of ticking clocks.

Jack sat hunched over the workbench, magnifying glasses perched on his nose, his fingers steady as he aligned the mechanism of a pocket watch that refused to cooperate. Jeeny leaned against the doorway, her arms folded, watching him with the kind of patience that knew better than to interrupt precision.

The light bulb above them flickered slightly, the soft hum of electricity blending with the chorus of ticking timepieces on every shelf.

Jeeny: Softly. “Michael J. Fox once said, ‘I am careful not to confuse excellence with perfection. Excellence I can reach for; perfection is God’s business.’”

Jack: Without looking up. “That’s a good one. He’s smarter than most people give him credit for.”

Jeeny: “It’s simple, but it cuts deep.”

Jack: “Yeah. Simplicity usually does.”

Host: He adjusted a tiny gear, his brow furrowed in concentration. The faint sound of a tool scraping metal echoed in the stillness — the kind of sound that only people who create something by hand ever learn to love.

Jeeny: “So which one are you chasing tonight — excellence or perfection?”

Jack: Smirks slightly. “Both. I keep pretending they’re the same thing.”

Jeeny: “They’re not.”

Jack: “Tell that to a man who’s spent twenty years fixing things that never stay fixed.”

Host: He sat back, pulling the magnifiers off his face, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The watch in front of him ticked once — a small, delicate sound — then stopped again.

Jeeny: “Perfection’s a trap, Jack. It’s the art of never being satisfied.”

Jack: Dryly. “Funny, I thought that was just life.”

Jeeny: “No. Life’s the opposite. It’s about finding meaning in the imperfect parts.”

Host: She stepped forward, picking up a small gear between her fingers. It was impossibly tiny — a piece of something greater that couldn’t work without every flaw fitting into place.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Perfection’s sterile. It’s lifeless. But excellence — excellence is human. It breathes.”

Jack: “And bleeds.”

Jeeny: Smiling faintly. “Exactly.”

Host: The lamp buzzed softly, its glow catching the dust motes that drifted lazily through the air like golden ash. The workshop felt like a confession — each clock a sermon in the language of patience.

Jack: “When I was a kid, my father used to say, ‘If something’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.’ So I tried. I spent my whole life chasing ‘right.’ Now I’m not sure I even know what that means.”

Jeeny: “Maybe ‘right’ was never the point. Maybe it was just ‘true.’”

Jack: Looks up at her. “True?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. The kind of right that comes from sincerity, not symmetry.”

Host: She placed the gear down, aligning it carefully beside the others. Her hands, though delicate, carried the calm of someone who had learned how to hold fragile things without breaking them.

Jack: “You know, perfection always looks clean in theory. But in practice, it’s lonely.”

Jeeny: “Because it doesn’t leave room for grace.”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Grace, huh? That’s not a word I hear much around here.”

Jeeny: “That’s because grace doesn’t belong in precision — it belongs in forgiveness.”

Host: A clock chimed faintly in the corner — one of Jack’s older repairs, its sound slightly uneven but beautiful for it. The tone lingered, imperfect but alive, filling the room with a kind of quiet honesty.

Jack: “You ever think about why we crave perfection so much? Every damn thing — our work, our bodies, our words — we polish it till it loses its soul.”

Jeeny: “Because excellence scares us. It demands consistency, effort, humility. Perfection is easier — it’s fantasy. You can dream about it without ever doing the work.”

Jack: “So you’re saying excellence hurts more.”

Jeeny: “Of course. Because it’s real.”

Host: Jack smiled, the kind of smile that comes from recognizing truth you wish you hadn’t ignored. He turned back to the watch, carefully repositioning a spring. The mechanism clicked, stuttered, then began to tick — faint but steady.

Jack: Softly, almost to himself. “You know, when I hear Fox say that — about leaving perfection to God — it almost feels like permission to breathe.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what it is. Permission to be brilliant without having to be flawless.”

Jack: “You ever wonder if that’s what faith really is? Accepting that some things will never be perfect — and doing them anyway?”

Jeeny: Smiles. “That’s not faith, Jack. That’s courage.”

Host: The ticking grew louder now, a gentle rhythm filling the workshop like a heartbeat rediscovered. Jack watched it with quiet satisfaction — not pride, not victory, just a small, pure moment of enough.

Jeeny: “See? That’s excellence. Not because it’s perfect, but because you cared enough to get it right this time.”

Jack: Chuckles. “And next time, it’ll break again.”

Jeeny: “Probably. But so will we. That’s what keeps it honest.”

Host: The light dimmed as the evening deepened outside. The window framed the city’s glow — a constellation of imperfect lights scattered across human effort.

Jack: “You know, I used to think perfection was the goal — the applause at the end of the work. But maybe it’s just the silence afterward, when you know you gave everything you could.”

Jeeny: “That’s excellence — the quiet satisfaction of having reached your edge without pretending it’s the end.”

Host: The workshop filled with a peaceful stillness. The ticking of the repaired watch joined the others — a small choir of imperfect rhythms, none in sync, yet somehow harmonizing in their shared defiance of stillness.

Jeeny leaned against the table, her face soft in the lamplight.

Jeeny: “You know, I think perfection’s God’s business because He has the patience for infinity. The rest of us — we just have today. And that’s enough.”

Jack: Quietly, smiling. “Yeah. Today’s enough.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the glow of the lamp turning the brass tools into tiny embers. The world outside continued — flawed, noisy, alive.

In that room, surrounded by ticking reminders of time’s imperfect grace, the two sat in stillness — not chasing, not mending, just existing in the space between effort and acceptance.

And somewhere between the heartbeat of the clocks and the quiet of the night, Michael J. Fox’s words hung like truth made flesh:

That excellence is the art of loving imperfection,
and perfection — the quiet work of something greater than us.