There are times in my life when I am happy. Content. Okay with the natural ebb and flow of things and the inherent flotsam and jetsam. I find beauty in it, even, in apple cores and a sticky knife resting lazily on the kitchen counter…in laundry hanging to dry in the window, or draped over a chair…the mundane messiness of life glides by me, as I swim strongly towards bigger and bolder goals.
Other times…I am consumed by the details, enervated by the ephemera, unhinged by an unmade bed or pile of clothes on the floor or (let’s be honest) Chad’s side of the closet.
But, also, I’m bothered by the feeling that the loose ends won’t ever come together. That perfection will always be out of my reach, and I see the mess around me as a reflection of my inner failings and turmoil, my inability to get. it. together.
(“You’re 27 now,” I tell myself, as though there is any other timeline for figuring things out than as you’re able).
But I want to let go. I WANT TO LET GO!!! I want to shout it, and not care if I’m too loud, not care if I eat cereal for dinner, not worry about my long-suffering thighs, not avoid doing things (like writing, or blogging, or organizing my workspace) because I’m intimidated by my own standard of cold, hard perfection. To the point of paralysis.
No more, I say! Good day to you, sir! I’m off to eat sushi, having accomplished a fair amount of things, knowing that there’s more to do later, and tomorrow, and the next day, and that I’ll do it just like that. One step at a time.
As I’m able.