A New Years Anti-Resolution
Sometimes I think life is just one long lesson in going easier on ourselves.
This isn't everyone's story, surely. But for the perfectionists and doers and movers (and distance runners) out there, the whole thing may be about going easier on ourselves. Giving ourselves some space. Watching ourselves somehow from above, clinging so tightly down there inside our hearts to ideals, and slowly...slowly...painfully...releasing.
Anxiety is a funny thing, because it markets itself as something real and urgently necessary. Like, necessary for survival. At the beginning on my journey facing anxiety, I thought releasing it would mean losing my very sense of self. Who would I be without my drive to fix things? Without fear keeping me on my toes? Without my sixth sense for imperfection reminding me to improve? I had come to identify so strongly with the perfectionistic voices in my head that I no longer knew my own voice. Did I have one?
It's very quiet.
Behind my anxiety there is a driving force called perfectionism, which functions in a world of black and white. You know how 5 year olds talk about good guys and bad guys as if there's no in-between people? Reality is much more complicated. We are all good and bad. We are all a pretty solid gray.
I would much rather be white.
On New Years Day, Taylor and I were cleaning up the apartment after a trip to Virginia for Christmas. The awesome thing about our new apartment is that it's small and new and easily cleaned; the downside is that it's so small I can see nearly the entire thing from the doorway. That means my superhuman ability to see messiness has no obstacle. From any vantage point, when I look at my apartment, I see the way the gray couch is a different shade than the chair, and there's a stain on the rug that the coffee table can't cover, and the throw pillows don't match the blankets. I see how there's no really good place to put my purse, so it sits on the counter, and even though everything we have is pretty carefully curated, it's just not minimalist enough for my tastes. It sounds ridiculous to say out loud, but it's real life inside my brain.
Even the things I truly love, like my plants, were bothering me that day. My bird of paradise has that one leaf stem that bent down during the move, and it's still alive and well, but it's bent down. You know?! And Ella the fern has some brown leaves because it's cold by the window, and my palm plant has a serious symmetry problem.
I was hardly aware of the reason for my sulky yet hyper-motivated mood until I had a sudden thought: I could get fake plants that are symmetrical...and immediately I noticed which voices I was allowing to control me. It was a moment when my deeper loyalties and beliefs rose up against my perfectionism and said a strong "no." Only fake things are perfect. The living plants I nurture carefully, that clean my air, that I open the curtains for every morning, that remind me of my own dirt-ness...they're real, and real living things are never picture perfect.
I believe in the real, the messy, the asymmetrical, the imperfect way that living things respond to their environment. I believe in it for myself and for the world; I believe the good must come with the bad, and it deepens us and opens us up when we accept that. I cling to the desperate need to be good, clean, and guiltless, but behind the clinging the true Me stands on a foundational belief in the unconditional goodness of creation. And so...in my life I continue down a path of acceptance and forgiveness, my lifelong work of letting go. I accept the world isn't perfect and I forgive it.
I accept I am imperfect and I forgive myself.
I give space. I give room for the tension. I give room for practice that doesn't make perfect. Because God already said, "it is good." I didn't make any New Years Resolutions this year, because that was healthier for me, but if I did make one, it would be to look around and say, "it is good."
This isn't everyone's story, surely. But for the perfectionists and doers and movers (and distance runners) out there, the whole thing may be about going easier on ourselves. Giving ourselves some space. Watching ourselves somehow from above, clinging so tightly down there inside our hearts to ideals, and slowly...slowly...painfully...releasing.
Anxiety is a funny thing, because it markets itself as something real and urgently necessary. Like, necessary for survival. At the beginning on my journey facing anxiety, I thought releasing it would mean losing my very sense of self. Who would I be without my drive to fix things? Without fear keeping me on my toes? Without my sixth sense for imperfection reminding me to improve? I had come to identify so strongly with the perfectionistic voices in my head that I no longer knew my own voice. Did I have one?
It's very quiet.
Behind my anxiety there is a driving force called perfectionism, which functions in a world of black and white. You know how 5 year olds talk about good guys and bad guys as if there's no in-between people? Reality is much more complicated. We are all good and bad. We are all a pretty solid gray.
I would much rather be white.
On New Years Day, Taylor and I were cleaning up the apartment after a trip to Virginia for Christmas. The awesome thing about our new apartment is that it's small and new and easily cleaned; the downside is that it's so small I can see nearly the entire thing from the doorway. That means my superhuman ability to see messiness has no obstacle. From any vantage point, when I look at my apartment, I see the way the gray couch is a different shade than the chair, and there's a stain on the rug that the coffee table can't cover, and the throw pillows don't match the blankets. I see how there's no really good place to put my purse, so it sits on the counter, and even though everything we have is pretty carefully curated, it's just not minimalist enough for my tastes. It sounds ridiculous to say out loud, but it's real life inside my brain.
Even the things I truly love, like my plants, were bothering me that day. My bird of paradise has that one leaf stem that bent down during the move, and it's still alive and well, but it's bent down. You know?! And Ella the fern has some brown leaves because it's cold by the window, and my palm plant has a serious symmetry problem.
I was hardly aware of the reason for my sulky yet hyper-motivated mood until I had a sudden thought: I could get fake plants that are symmetrical...and immediately I noticed which voices I was allowing to control me. It was a moment when my deeper loyalties and beliefs rose up against my perfectionism and said a strong "no." Only fake things are perfect. The living plants I nurture carefully, that clean my air, that I open the curtains for every morning, that remind me of my own dirt-ness...they're real, and real living things are never picture perfect.
I believe in the real, the messy, the asymmetrical, the imperfect way that living things respond to their environment. I believe in it for myself and for the world; I believe the good must come with the bad, and it deepens us and opens us up when we accept that. I cling to the desperate need to be good, clean, and guiltless, but behind the clinging the true Me stands on a foundational belief in the unconditional goodness of creation. And so...in my life I continue down a path of acceptance and forgiveness, my lifelong work of letting go. I accept the world isn't perfect and I forgive it.
I accept I am imperfect and I forgive myself.
I give space. I give room for the tension. I give room for practice that doesn't make perfect. Because God already said, "it is good." I didn't make any New Years Resolutions this year, because that was healthier for me, but if I did make one, it would be to look around and say, "it is good."
Comments
Post a Comment