I've decided that I'm not going to play with this one, to clean it up and make it clever and pretty and smart. I'm going to post it like it is. I'm not going to hunt for photos that would illustrate it, or even (gasp!) proof-read it. I'm not going to save it as a draft and come back to it later. I'm thumbing my nose at my perfectionism here, and I'm not going to placate it by trying to make this post perfect.
A gentleman at McDonald's this afternoon set his grandchildren to playing in the PlayPlace, and then got out his sketchbook and colored pencils, and a gorgeous photograph of the bird he was drawing. He had the outline drawn in, and had just begun to fill it with color. I commented that it was beautiful, and he smiled and said, "Ah, you like elephants, then?" We both had a good laugh about it.
I sat back down to watch Katie, and thought about all the colored pencils and sketchbooks I had at home, not to mention other art supplies, stored in various "out-of-the-way" places in the house and all but unused. I thought about how desperately I'd wished I could paint this weekend, as we drove under some fascinatingly cloudy skies, and how, when we got home, I hadn't even gotten my supplies out because I knew I couldn't do the scenes justice.
I told the man that, watching him, I'd begun to realize how much I rob myself of delight because of the fear that I would "waste" my supplies creating something less than perfect. Since the only art lessons I've ever had were in the form of a beginning calligraphy class in college, I know that what I make will be lacking. He told me, "You have to see the perfection in the growth. I keep all of my old things, and I look back and see how much my skills have improved, and it is very satisfying." He told me that he only recently started using color, and that it is an all new learning process.
As a person with a creative heart, my thoughts constantly turn to things I could make. Since he was using colored pencils, I will start there: I have colored pencils I bought specifically for scrapbooking, which I never do; I have colored pencils for art, which I never create. I have "watercolor pencils" I received for Christmas one year, something I was (and am) excited to play with, but I don't think I've ever done much more than open the box and look at them. I have the biggest box I could find of Crayola erasable pencils, because with them I could make mistakes and correct them, and they are the most used of all my colored pencils... but if I've had to sharpen them more than twice, I would be surprised. After all, with all the mistakes I make, I would waste ERASERS.
I have several boxes of crayons. I won't tell you how many are squirrelled away in my closet, where the kids can't get them, and waste the factory-molded tips. Thinking of those crayons today made me ashamed. There are other boxes that I have shared with the kids, and even with those I want to cry when one gets stepped on, or even crammed into the box wrong. Don't press so hard; see how pretty a light stroke of color can look? There is something in my psyche that is devastated by having to peel a wrapper back. My son offered to sharpen one of Katie's crayons -- I cannot move on without admitting that I think of them as "my crayons I share with Katie" -- but I can't bear the thought of shaving away --wasting -- some of the wax. A few friends have posted pictures recently of a Crayola crayon standing on end, burning, with a caption that says that a crayon will burn for 30 minutes. I would have to be pretty desperate to burn a crayon. Then again, I rarely burn my candles, too. I decided about 8 years ago to treat myself to a big "jar" candle in a scent I love; I'll probably never light the wick. It just sits on my nightstand, and if I keep it dusted, I can smell it sometimes when I lie down.
Thinking about all of these art supplies (the list goes on pretty extensively) made me think of some of the other arts and crafts things I'm afraid to waste on my mistakes. I crochet, and have a small collection of yarns. I don't buy yarn without a specific project in mind (if I had unlimited resources, and unlimited storage, this would probably change) and so my "stash" is mostly remnants from past projects. Even so, I have a fear of wasting those remnants. I've been known to destroy a bit of yarn by crocheting something and pulling it out and crocheting it again until the fibers separate and pull apart. Even then, I don't want to cut it and throw it away.
I bought beads for Katie when her occupational therapist said that stringing them would be a good exercise for her. She has never stayed interested in stringing beads long enough to make a full bracelet. Before she ever finishes, she will start scattering the beads, and before long I'm gathering them from the four corners of the house, sliding them off the string, and putting them all away again. I wonder, if I tied off the string, whether she would enjoy it enough to try for longer the next time.
I have beads of my own, tiny beads that spill from a dish to the table to the floor as fluidly as spilled milk. I've spent hours gathering them from the kitchen table and floor when trying to make something... And I've usually finished by putting them all away again instead of keeping my creations.
Fabric, too, is a crafting supply I'm afraid to waste. I don't know how to sew. I've made a few things, small things, unimportant things, and I delight in the creation of them. I'm fascinated how stitches on the "wrong side" become hidden seams, and how the shaped pieces of cloth can become a three-dimensional marvel. I love puzzling out how to create something I imagine. When the boys were little, I made curtains for their bedroom without a pattern, and I was SO proud of how they turned out. I made them each a book bag for preschool, and even figured out how to hide the seams on both the outside and the inside. When Katie started Early Intervention School, I got out the fabric I bought for a basic sewing class at church and made her a backpack. It turned out rather skewampus, and the Velcro closure didn't hold very well, but it was cute anyway. I think I have a seamstress-compatible brain, just without any training. I want to learn; I want to teach myself, but I hate wasting fabric figuring it all out.
I realized today that my perfectionism tells me that the raw materials are worth much more than my creativity. And I listen to my perfectionism.
My perfectionism tells me that my blog would be worth more if I wouldn't fill it with ramblings like this one. I shouldn't put such disorganized, pouty thoughts out into the world where just anyone can stumble upon them. Who, having read this, would want to read anything else I write? You're shooting yourself in the foot, Kim, if you want readers.
In March and April, I was really excited to get out the sewing machine and SEW. I had fabric I'd purchased for a couple of creative ideas, and I was itching to start, but I told myself I couldn't touch it until the taxes were done. You would think that, knowing I had something like that to look forward to, I would jump right in and do the taxes. But I didn't. Perfectionism told me that figuring them out would be hard (and it was) and that I might not be able to do it (I could, and did.) When they were done, did I get out the sewing machine and reward myself? NO. Because there is also all the paper clutter in the kitchen that I need to go through. And in the family room. And I need to go through the clothes Katie has outgrown. And... and... and...
Perfectionism tells me that I haven't done enough of the hard things to warrant spending time on me. I haven't earned it. I don't deserve it.
Perfectionism tells me I COULD actually be happy if I would just get ALL my failings fixed first. Perfectionism tells me I'm capable of so much better than I am doing, and therefore I am wasting my potential. Perfectionism reminds me that "Good enough never is," and then sighs and says "I suppose you are good enough." (Thankfully, It doesn't then lean in and explain the "joke," but I see Its patronizing smile.) Perfectionism asks me, "If you don't have time to do it right, when will you find time to do it over?" and I respond, too often, by giving up all together.
I've known for a long time that my perfectionism doesn't do me many favors (a few good grades back in the day, including an A in that calligraphy class,) but I don't think I'd realized until today just how deeply it dips into my personal delight.
I want my delight back.
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