Looking around my room, you wouldn’t see anything approaching organization. Oh, books are on bookshelves. But there’s a basket of clean laundry waiting to be folded, piles of blankets on my unmade bed, a few glasses on my desk. Pads of paper scattered everywhere. Spiral notebooks lying open on the desk. Random pens hiding everywhere, waiting to be found at a random moment.
My windowsill is just as eclectic. Some of my cooler trials trophies. My wooden hawk statue my dad got me in Japan. The metal springy cat my friend Mary got me so many years ago. Different scented candles. A little wooden angel from my sister in law.
There’s a shelf of little carousel horses and unicorn statues. My old number plate signed by some of the trials greats. Stuffed animals and the jewelry box handed down through my family. A piece of driftwood I found on my first camping trip out here in Colorado. Boxes of paint, colored pencils, and my woodburning gear.
My motorcycle helmet sitting on my floor alongside my boots. Dusty shoes from horseback riding. Dress boots for work.
It’s not perfect. But it’s me. So perfect it is.
It’s a messy perfection.
When I look back on my life so far, it’s far from perfect. But maybe in its own messy way, it’s been perfect for me.
I’ve been thinking a lot about perfection lately, as I’ve been listening to different ‘improve yourself’ podcasts. Talking about how to grow. How to perfect yourself. Etc. Etc.
I’ve been realizing how much stress I’ve put on myself to be perfect throughout my life. And what is perfect? Is it a certain look? A certain way to act? A certain goal to achieve?
And the truth of my life is that the more I strove to be perfect, the more my life seemed to fall apart and the less I was. The more stressed out and anxious I was. The more unhappy I was.
Because there’s no living up to other people’s expectations. And I have to stop trying.
For most of my life perfection was just that…perfect. That was the definition. Homes out of Better Homes and Gardens. 4.0 grades at school. Graduating college. The perfect job. The perfect life. Everything in line and straight and posh and whatever other elegant, immaculate words you can throw at it.
And I’ve ‘failed’ at being that in every which way I’ve turned. It’s torn me up for so long. Not being perfect.
But looking around my room right now, feeling how happy I am, I think I’ve come up with a new meaning of perfection.
Messy perfection is my room. Things are out of place. Not everything is exactly as it should be. But I’m surrounded by the things that make me happy. The things that are me.
Having a job that makes me happy. My motorcycles. My horse back riding. Reading. Writing. Going hiking in the mountains.
I don’t need a high powered job. I don’t need the college degree. I don’t need to stand up to anyone else’s expectations. As long as I’m meeting my own.
It may seem messy to other people but it’s ok. It’s my own messy perfection.