No, I’m not just uploading sporadically – I have come nowhere close to writing every day since I made that commitment.
Maybe I can blame it on the fact that I’m very pregnant, or that our whole country seems to be going through a national crisis that leaves me at a loss for words. It could also be a general lack of discipline.
When I’m tempted to feel frustrated about my “failure,” I remember that I’ve still written more blogposts in the last few weeks than I had written in many months previous. I have to be content with shorter content, things that seem less grandiose, are far less polished, and that take less time. I think it’s a good practice.
I have a lot of perfectionistic tendencies, and if I’ve learned anything about them, it’s that they’re very good at making me unhappy. It’s hard to enjoy life, or one’s accomplishments, or any particular moment, when one is dwelling on what could be better.
That’s not to say that I think stagnation would be a preferable alternative. I do want to get better at writing on the regular. That’s why I’m sitting here on my front porch watching the last tendrils of sunset, my laptop open on the bistro table, words flowing out. Progress matters.
I find my goals of perfection tend to hinder my progress more than they help it. I become so consumed with my image of what could be that I forget to do what’s directly before me.
I think there’s a larger metaphor here that could be applied to other areas of society, but I don’t really want to get into the nitty gritty of that conversation. While perfection leads to a never-ending grind, it also engenders a sort of laziness. When we have become so obsessed with our images of perfection that we neglect the initial steps of progress laying right before us, we help no one. The critique is rarely limited to ourselves – perhaps to endure so intense a lens turned inwards is too uncomfortable – and so our obsession expands to haranguing those around us, wanting to know why they haven’t arrived, when we’ve barely set out on the journey ourselves.
I’d like to get better at this, especially with motherhood lingering in the not-to-distant future. I have to learn to be satisfied with the half-done, the good-enough, the “we can deal with that tomorrow.” I want to turn my mind to the present, to preparing in good conscience for what I know is needful, not be consumed with panic at all the requirements I lay unnecessarily upon myself and the world at large.
And my word, the world can be beautiful. I wish I could transport you to this moment. I hear a train signal as it speeds past. The birds chirp from their hiding spots in the trees. The heat of the day has faded, and the cool evening breeze carries over the smell of someone’s wood fire. A barefoot boy in pajamas rides his bike down the gravel drive, my neighbor steps out of her door for one last glimpse of the day.
I could tell you about the cracked parking lot, my swollen ankles, the broken-hearted questions that drift over the city. But there’s beauty here too, love extended to neighbors, people learning, the simple threads that weave life together. Street lamps and telephone wires crisscross the sky, but nature still stands strong, reminding me that what we often see as progress is just a simple blip against the background of the earth.