Purging Perfectionism
Three things both struck me and stuck with me this past week.
The first thing: the “2019” sign hanging from the front porch of one of my neighbor’s homes
Once upon a time, I had a sign like this hanging from my front porch – signifying a child within its portals had reached the significant milestone of graduation.
The second thing: I was reminded of a poem I had written many years ago entitled “A Soccer Mom’s Sunday” – long before any of my sons had graduated.
A soccer mom’s Sunday
Is an awful lot like her Monday
It’s prying and vying and sighing and trying
To get everything done
That needs to be done.
It’s loading the dishes
And containing the wishes
Of husband and children
And her own unfulfilled dreams.
It’s picking up clutter
As you hear them all mutter
“Ma, you’re blocking the TV
Please move
So that we can see.”
It’s bringing order to chaos
And chaos to order
In a never-ending battle
With tedium and fatigue.
It’s not realizing
Family and family relations
Are not always as neat and as tidy
As we hope they would seem.
And that’s probably why
We pour out our angst and frustrations
In weekly therapy session
Where we unravel and scream.
It’s scrounging for pennies, and nickels, and quarters
To add to school lunch money
While acting like it’s all
Just a really fun game.
It’s wearing worn-out shoes
And outdated blouses
While imagining the neighbors whispers of
“It’s such a shame.”
And when the kids are so little
It’s wishing they’d grow up.
And when they are older
It’s wishing they’d just show up
To shed some magic glow
On our now-so-quiet routine.
It’s having a message
On our telephone answering machine
Announcing “You’ve called
The happy home of the Pastors.”
Oh, they should only know
All the past and present disasters
Colliding, residing, presiding and hiding
Within the walls
Of the very happy home
Of the very “perfect” Pastors.
Wow! Looking back, that was a pretty dark poem. Razor focused on raising perfect children in a perfectly run household demanded too much of myself. My high expectations didn’t energize me, but deflated me.
But now, my kids are grown and I have another chance at being content with “good enough.” I have another chance of achieving both balance and perspective. And ousting unrealistic visons of being flawless, impeccable and unflappable.
The third thing that struck me this week: A poem entitled “Dust If You Must” sent to me by my buddy, Lynne, written by Rose Milligan:
Dust if you must, but wouldn’t it be better
To paint a picture or write a letter
Bake a cake or plant a seed
Ponder the difference between want and need?
Dust if you must, but there’s not much time,
With rivers to swim and mountains to climb,
Music to hear and books to read,
Friends to cherish and life to lead.
Dust if you must, but the worlds out there
With the sun in your eyes, the wind in your hair,
A flutter of snow, a shower of rain
This day will not come round again.
Dust if you must, but bear in mind,
Old age will come and it’s not kind.
And when you go – and go you must –
You, yourself, will make more dust.
Seize the Day and Keep Preserving Your Bloom,
Iris Ruth Pastor
