I know you've heard this...I was raised with it. Along with the corollary: Idle hands are the Devil's workshop.
So we had to be doing something always, and if we were going to do something we had to do it well...Somewhere along the line that created the Perfectionist with a capital "P" that I am today.
Well, I'm trying to slack off a bit, now that the people who raised me are gone. So then Kat reminded me that gardens start out looking a little sad in response to my last post (you DID notice my perfectionism down there, didn't you?). I've tried to lower my sights a bit to realize that on my balcony, I will not have scads of tomatoes or any other vegetable, there just aren't "perfect" growing conditions out there...but I can tell you that at present the lemon balm and the catnip are going great guns! And I guess that means that I can relax a bit over the garden at least...there'll be plenty of that for tea (and for the kitties!). Over on my other blog I've been showing folks photos of my (finally!) completed Highland Triangle Shawl, and gearing up for a summer of Amazing Lace and Summer Reading. I strive for perfection in all I do, but I'm not going to tell you where the "flaws" are in HTS (you can't see them in the photos or when I'm wearing it, but like the Hopi Indians I know I allowed the spirit room to fly free), and I've already acknowledged that I can read much less than I used to thanks to my vision, so my booklist for the summer is brief compared to years past.
I'm a joiner. I'm a doer. I have to be constantly in motion...there's not enough time, so I have to cram more in. Heart disease and Lupus have taught me that time is finite. Sleep is something I do because my body insists upon it, not because my mind is willing to stop for even a second. Because there is SO MUCH in this life I want to try, to savor, to accomplish. So many bags to make and see the color and fabric combinations come alive that I haven't even imagined yet; so many shawls to knit in patterns my fingers haven't learned yet and with glorious yarns of unbelievable softness and vibrancy; so many books to read with word pictures that writers far better than I haven't set to paper yet; so many recipes to try exploding with untried flavors; so much love to experience that hasn't touched my heart yet.
All kinds of love: for my man, for grandchildren, for family and friends, for feline companions, for pasttimes, for passions.
Wow. I'm not a perfectionist? I want to do it all, to the very best of my ability. And that's the only definition of perfection that matters.