So much Making, such good eating!
One of the greatest things about living on our little farmlet is showing up places with things that we grew, with a "hostess gift" of something from our garden. All summer long, we arrive with flowers or jam or peppers or tomatoes, and sometimes honey.
We show up with something we made.
Somewhere in our woods, there’s a squirrel curled up right now in a nest made super-cozy by an olive-green knit headband. The squirrel worked that headband round and round with its clever little hands, after it dragged it all the way up the tree, unsnagging it from bark and little twigs on the way. And then the squirrel turned it this way, that way, until the big floppy flower part came to rest at just the right angle for squirrel’s little head, big eyes closed tight and dreaming.
I have not been feeling myself lately. I think this feeling started last week, but got stronger and stronger in the last couple of days. Truth is, too, that I definitely have a cold today, so that’s part of it. But I just feel so weird. I was so clear for a while there, so solid, and now suddenly I feel unmoored, unhitched from me, like I’m Peter Pan’s shadow stuck in a drawer somewhere, needing to be stitched back on.
And you know why?
Because I haven’t been writing (enough) every morning.
What I'm about to share is far from an original thought. Certainly I'm not the first, nor will I be the last or even the best, to say that perfectionism is a scourge. That the sooner we put off perfectionism, the better.
I think what I've been learning, daily, for a couple of years now is that
Perfectionism is poison.