The perfectionist in me cringes at this picture of my work because the lighting really highlights the textures. It's a mixed media collage. It's meant to have texture. There is character and beauty in those lines. But my perfectionism tends to see those lines as flaws. My instinct is to want to "fix" it. Make it pretty. And nice. And flawless.
I haven't posted in seven weeks. Partly because I'm trying to spend more time with my art. Partly because I'm a perfectionist. Mostly because I'm afraid. I'm afraid because I can only write what's on my heart, and my heart has been under reconstruction this year. Reconstruction is always messy. It's not a pretty process. I can't present you with something nice and flawless.
Who wants to admit that in the blog land of the steadfast, the faithful, the heroic, the inspirational, the helpful, the hopeful, and the perfectly polished? Not me! I'd rather not write, not share, not speak, until I'm all fixed up and the heart project is complete and I can share the good news and the lessons learned and we can all live happily ever after.
Who wants to hit the "publish" button knowing that the person sitting behind you at the next game may very well know what is going on behind your pleasant smile and the friendly "how are you?" It's a small town where I live. I don't think many people here do a lot of blog reading, but every now and then I get a comment, "Oh! I just read your blog!" When that happens, I don't know whether to be happy or run and hide.
You see, I come from a long line of very quiet Dutch people who faithfully and respectfully kept their thoughts and feelings and problems to themselves. After a lifetime of practice, I do an exceptionally good job of wearing the masks too. I don't like to rock that boat. Or is it a wooden shoe?
(trying to pose like the ancestors)
Blogging could easily become a mask for me--a lovely mask where I could safely write and edit and delete every single word and picture until I have the perfectly polished presentation of my thoughts. Given enough time and tools I could always pick the perfect words to say. That's not real life. That's not real me. I don't want to be that kind of blogger. I don't ever want anyone to visit my blog and find an edited perfected blog version of me. There are blogs that I don't read anymore for that very reason. Their seemingly perfect "everything" leaves me feeling envious and inadequate as a wife, mother, artist, blogger, and friend. Yuck.
So I struggle sometimes trying to find the balance.
Being real without being depressing.
Being honest without whining.
Sharing without preaching.
But mostly I wonder...does it really matter?
I read what I've written and this is what I hear:
"Who really cares?"
"It's not important."
"It's not good enough."
"Why even try?"
"It doesn't matter."
"Someone else does it better."
I hear it all the time.
Do you hear it too?
When you write? When you draw? When you paint? When you build? When you sing?
When you sew? When you play your song? When you send that letter?
When you bake that pie? When you snap that picture? When you hit that ball?
When you lace up your shoes? When you pick up the phone? When you teach your kids?
When you offer to help? When you deliver those cookies?
When you do that thing that makes your heart sing?
I used to think that it was the voice of insecurity, a lack of confidence, or perfectionism talking.
I used to think that maybe it was true.
It's not.
It's a bunch of lies.
And I'm not going to listen to it anymore.
(to be continued...in less than 7 weeks)
"The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy;
I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full."
~ Jesus of Nazareth, John 10:10
.jpg)
