Perfectly Imperfect

I've missed (seriously?) two days!! But I forgive myself. Forgiveness is huge. I grew up with perfectionism hurled at me and it, I am reading, is one of the most destructive garments to be wrapped around a child; neglect as its sibling. Now I'm not blaming my mother who must also have been dressed in it in her youth; I simply forgive her for carrying on the tradition. And so I forgive myself for missing two days.

Perfectionism gives birth to self criticism, an inner belittling voice that never stops talking. It comes to me like the curl of steam from a hot cup of coffee when I pick up my pen or put my fingers to the keyboard. Or when I begin to work on a project that at first excites me, and then causes me to wince, wondering what will work, what won't?

Which is why I've been working on ridding myself of perfectionism. Meditation is a great cure. Being alone and quiet entices petulant perfectionism to come and be reckoned with, and allows me to grab her by the sleeve, hugging it out. And then I can say with complete confidence: "I love you, Sheela. You are smart, funny, insightful, generous, loving, respectful, and a damn good writer!"

Dedicated to my daughters and my mother.