I am a perfectionist. Somewhere in my teens, I picked up the idea that I needed to be perfect. I thoroughly embraced my faith at the time and was inspired to live my life on the next level, a shining example of moral conduct and personal excellence.
That’s all good and well, except I tend to take things to the extreme. I set incredibly high standards for myself and would beat myself up if I made a mistake, or failed at something. I always felt like I had to be on point, on the ball, all the time…so much damn pressure.
But perfection is a fantasy, and eventually life catches up with us…in its glorious fuckedupness. My pursuit of perfection went so far and my frustration with falling short repeatedly built up so much that I finally gave up. I stopped trying and began to learn to be. I let myself off the hook.
Now I’ve learned that perfection is an illusion, something to be sought, but never attained (perhaps only in hindsight). A guiding star, rather than a destination. Life is messy, and flaws are distinguishing features.
Sometimes when I have an idea or I need to create, I have high expectations for how I want it to turn out…the higher they are, the less likely I would start working on it. I’ve learned to make allowance for fuck ups. I fly right into the creative storm knowing full well that I would only probably reach 80% of the awesomeness I seek…if I’m lucky. This ensures I actually do produce things, and perhaps…one out of a hundred would actually be perfect.