Perfection
Perfectionism seems to be the recurrent theme du jour so why not have it out right here! Come on inner perfectionist, I'm calling you out onto the carpet....and its going to get messy.
Life is messy. When I gave birth to my son I remember that it was an exposed, noisy, visceral, messy affair that ended with his lusty yell and me lying in a heap, feeling an indescribable sense of joy and accomplishment. Miraculous new life, in all its splendor. Was it like a Martha Stewart cover shot? - No way!
Writing isn't much different. It gets messy, I am exposed, vulnerable. It is a visceral process as I excavate the many tucked away little corners of unfinished business that seem to surface from the depths as I write page after page of whatever rises to the surface, allowing the full flow of shame, joy, humiliation and triumph to ripple through my body in order to capture its essence on the page.
Today I wrote about everything from lunch meat to the incredibly wise words my Grade 5 teacher, Mr. Royce, shared with me that were an anchor in my turbulent little life and they still bring tears to my eyes. He reassured me that I would find many things in the world outside the schoolyard that I would not only be good at, but that I would love. He was right.
More than that, he was able to see past my plump, non-athletic, bookwormish, goody-two-shoes persona and recognize the little girl who longed to find a place in the world that reflected who she was, not just who she was expected to be.
My need for order and perfection has been a shield against the unexpected. It is though I can keep the nasty, scary parts of life at bay if I become the "best little girl" ever or BLG, as my friend and Sekhmet co-author, Lorna LeBrun, has dubbed it. As children we tend to see every aspect of our parents' moods, relationships, frustrations as a refection of of who we are. So often this is reinforced by our limited view of the world at that age. We have no experience with which to temper the sharp edges of the complexities of adult life. We simply feel confused about things we don't even have the capacity to talk about. As adults, we are rewarded for this coping mechanism over and over again at work, by magazine layouts and popular culture everywhere.
My inner perfectionist has set up permanent residence, often masquerading as who I am. If I don't pay close attention, my power is usurped by this matronly, finger-wagging, imaginary entity I have nick-named "Francis". If I don't sneak past her, I end up writing in tight, tidy lifeless little circles. My sentences don't grab at my insides and arrive on the page with a lusty yell....they are stillborn.
As much as I appreciate her attempts as creating safety and order, "Francis" leaves me flat and lifeless. Do I really believe that an organized underwear drawer will keep the psychos of the world at bay? Well, not when I pose the question so bluntly - and I'd be lying if I didn't mention that the "Francis" aspect of me is trying really hard to keep that bald faced lie alive! It let it go would mean that life is unpredictable, uncontrollable and - GASP! Messy!!
Life is messy. When I gave birth to my son I remember that it was an exposed, noisy, visceral, messy affair that ended with his lusty yell and me lying in a heap, feeling an indescribable sense of joy and accomplishment. Miraculous new life, in all its splendor. Was it like a Martha Stewart cover shot? - No way!
Writing isn't much different. It gets messy, I am exposed, vulnerable. It is a visceral process as I excavate the many tucked away little corners of unfinished business that seem to surface from the depths as I write page after page of whatever rises to the surface, allowing the full flow of shame, joy, humiliation and triumph to ripple through my body in order to capture its essence on the page.
Today I wrote about everything from lunch meat to the incredibly wise words my Grade 5 teacher, Mr. Royce, shared with me that were an anchor in my turbulent little life and they still bring tears to my eyes. He reassured me that I would find many things in the world outside the schoolyard that I would not only be good at, but that I would love. He was right.
More than that, he was able to see past my plump, non-athletic, bookwormish, goody-two-shoes persona and recognize the little girl who longed to find a place in the world that reflected who she was, not just who she was expected to be.
My need for order and perfection has been a shield against the unexpected. It is though I can keep the nasty, scary parts of life at bay if I become the "best little girl" ever or BLG, as my friend and Sekhmet co-author, Lorna LeBrun, has dubbed it. As children we tend to see every aspect of our parents' moods, relationships, frustrations as a refection of of who we are. So often this is reinforced by our limited view of the world at that age. We have no experience with which to temper the sharp edges of the complexities of adult life. We simply feel confused about things we don't even have the capacity to talk about. As adults, we are rewarded for this coping mechanism over and over again at work, by magazine layouts and popular culture everywhere.
My inner perfectionist has set up permanent residence, often masquerading as who I am. If I don't pay close attention, my power is usurped by this matronly, finger-wagging, imaginary entity I have nick-named "Francis". If I don't sneak past her, I end up writing in tight, tidy lifeless little circles. My sentences don't grab at my insides and arrive on the page with a lusty yell....they are stillborn.
As much as I appreciate her attempts as creating safety and order, "Francis" leaves me flat and lifeless. Do I really believe that an organized underwear drawer will keep the psychos of the world at bay? Well, not when I pose the question so bluntly - and I'd be lying if I didn't mention that the "Francis" aspect of me is trying really hard to keep that bald faced lie alive! It let it go would mean that life is unpredictable, uncontrollable and - GASP! Messy!!
posted by A at 4:49 PM
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