Sheer Perfection

Perfection: the state of being perfect (utterly without defect, flawless....or to be more mundane, accurate); exemplification of supreme excellence. Perfection is on my mind as I'm in the final days of a week off from work, for alot of reasons. For example, I'm taking a class, just a computer applications class on Office 2010. I work with this stuff all the time, but we're learning all kinds of nifty things. Four weeks ago I maybe could have used a Word table, but it would have taken me hours and caused alot of stress. Last week I whipped one out in 10 minutes. Just had my first test of the semester and got 96 out of 100. I'm pleased, but a niggling little voice says "If you'd tried just a little harder, you could have had 100".
And I've been dabbling--learning--to make felt. What magic--you start with puffs of roving

and a few thousand pokes with a needle later, you have a pumpkin!

Or you start with the aforementioned clouds of wool, add water, soap and some serious elbow grease and voila--a vase! How cool is that? I'm proud of my pumpkin, and yet..I see every flaw. Never mind that Mama Nature herself adds a few flaws to the real deal, MY pumpkin should have been perfect. While I'm pleased with my vase, and even the most kind instructor praised some of my techniques and the strength of the felt I made, I see the uneven edges, the imperfect body.
Heading into this much-needed and long-awaited week off, I had alot of plans for the perfect vacation. They didn't include being sick one day, having our sunset sloop sail cancelled, time racing by, or uncomfortably warm weather that set the bees in a frenzy, making any outside time really unpleasant. I'm mentally working on an article/essay, and haven't put a word on paper becauseI'm afraid to start. What if my writing isn't perfect? Of course, that last question has hamstrung me for 30 years. Permanent Perfection Paralysis...I wonder if there's an actual psychological diagnosis for that?
I grew up having the requirement for perfection beaten into me--literally.  An 'A' wasn't good enough; why wasn't it 'A+'? I was a good kid who didn't dare get into trouble, but I was portrayed as a rebellious, bad teenager, and punished accordingly (and beyond). I was expected not only to strive for perfection, but to attain it, and missing the mark meant I was worthless and unlovable, and according to my mother, I missed the mark more than I hit the bullseye. My story isn't unique. We all have our perfection demons, some mouse-size, some gargantuan. But the fear of not measuring up to those demons is looming large these days as I explore new skills: daring to call myself a 'fiber artist' (NOVICE fiber artist!); learning new computer applications and being graded on that learning; facing that I gained back almost all the weight I'd lost a year ago, and need to lose it again--and alot more; daring to put pen to paper again.  Perfection as supreme excellence works for me when we're talking about other things--yep, this vacation time has had imperfect moments, but I've spent time with Linda, the dogs and Elf; I've learned some felting, knit, read, relaxed. Today I get to have lunch with a friend I haven't seen in probably a year and a half and truly miss, and tomorrow Linda and I are spending the day at the NYS Sheep and Wool Festival. Supreme excellence indeed!
But can I embrace that old catechism adage, with a name change, 'Goddess only makes perfection, and She made me'? Can I see perfection in the act of doing rather than the end result? Does supreme excellence apply even in stumbling and falling, if one gets back up? How do you define perfection--friend or foe? Let's give this a try together...let's revise perfection's definition to include overcoming the fear of failure-or of mediocrity-and make it a little less noun and a little more verb. Is that possible? How are you going to do that today, tomorrow, this week? 

Acts of Faith

When I was ten years old, my mother decided to convert to Catholicism, and I was apparently of an age where I too had to go through indoctrination classes to get up to speed.  When all was said and done, one of the prayers I was expected to know and recite was the Act of Faith. Throughout my remaining 5 1/2 years as a practicing--and devout--Catholic, that prayer was a cornerstone for me. It summed up what I believed, what the church said my faith was all about.  Faith and Catholicism in a nutshell.
Fast forward many years...sometimes I balk at the word 'faith' in a spiritual connotation.  I don't rely on faith to light my spiritual path.  I 'know' there's a Divine Energy in everyone's life.  The face, the name, our awareness of 'It', all change color, shape and texture the way a kaleidoscope's innards change, and while 'It' is a 'She' to me, that doesn't make someone else's experience less valid.  When I say a prayer, when I talk to Her, it's not an act of faith, which implies a certain leap, a risk, the possibility there's no net. For me, it's as real as the keyboard I'm typing on. I 'know' there's a net.
But this morning, driving to work on a fog-shrouded bridge, the phrase act of faith wouldn't leave my mind. There I was on a metal structure, unable to see the water beneath, sky above, or either shore.  All things were shades of gray, and I was trusting I'd emerge onto a road, see trees and fields, encounter the same familiar scenery I've passed a few thousand times before.  And it made me ponder other acts of faith great and small: whispering "I love you" for the first--or thousandth--time; having children; saying "I'm sorry"; holding our mother's hand; adopting a shelter animal; planting a pumpkin seed; buying pants without trying them on; getting out of bed; making a friend; forgiving; telling a secret; making love; helping a stranger; putting away the snowblower for the season; flying a kite....
Life is an act of faith; will you tell me some of YOUR acts of faith?

Calendars and Reality

Here's the thing...once upon a time there were no calendars, and no scientists to tell us when the exact moment of Fall would breathe its first and last breath. There probably wasn't even a word for it.  Just a moment when everyone stopped hunting and gathering and clubbing each other and being chased by saber-toothed tigers to stand still, sniff the air and realize something was changing.  Today is like that. 

Yep, Fall is officially still a week away, but the calendar is a lie...or, to be kinder, a guideline.  Look at that sky....is that not an October blue?  The light has a golden, crystalline quality to it.  Wild turkeys, squirrels, mice and chipmunks rush about in greater numbers than just two weeks ago, and the deer are raiding the pear tree and grazing openly at dawn and twilight. 

Whether it's the concord grapes, the already abundant apples and newly appearing winter squashes, or the need to light a fire or snuggle more deeply under the extra blanket, denial won't change that Fall is here.  Oh, we'll get warm again, may even have to run the air conditioner off and on these next few weeks.  Tomatoes and green beans may share space with those grapes, and the October blue will disappear in humid haze for awhile.  But reality has spoken.  Use that calendar to record soccer practice and vet appointments, birthdays and anniversaries, but use your five senses to know the season.  Listen to the dry leaves whispering and shushing; admire the blaze of crimson poison ivy (from afar); savor the tart sweetness of the season's fruits--a true metaphor for the giddy sadness that so often accompanies Fall; breathe in the scent of woodsmoke from the first fires and the spices of hot soups and applesauce; feel the crunch of leaves and silken softeness of milkweed on its farewell journey.  You know it's Fall, deep in your soul...for some of us, it's a gift; for others, well...take heart; the Wheel keeps turning and Summer will be back...I promise.

Party's Over, Folks!

It's happened.  Each year there is that moment when Summer looks around with bleary eyes and says, "That's it for me; it's been a great party, but I need to go home and get some sleep." It isn't that Fall is here, it's a fading of leaves, weeds gone to seed, a slant and color to the light that shows the smudged mascara, tangled hair and wrinkled clothes of a party girl who has had too much. But this year it seems too soon.  Did Hurricane Irene (which was a tropical storm when it reached us) kick Summer in the arse even while wreaking such havoc and destruction just a few miles from us? Certainly Irene tore even green leaves from the trees, leaving them far too underdressed for this time of year. Anyone who knows me knows that I love Fall, and have little fondness for Summer.  But this year the energy feels different...it's not time yet.  Mama Nature has aged; she's creaky, and wrinkled, too tired to get up and face another day.  Perhaps she's feeling guilty about the hundreds of homes she destroyed, the lives taken by that cataclysmic tempest in a teapot of mountain villages.

Or hey, maybe it's just that too much rain and wind has simply left the trees stressed.  Maybe the little gray cloud that's been haunting me of late is oozing into how I interpret the energy of this seasonal cusp.  It just seems as though the clock is racing, calendar pages keep flipping, apples are in season before the tomatoes ever reached their prime, and we're all in a race whose finish line seems obscure, here one moment, miles away the next.... 

Joy In the Morning

The only way to start the day....

Glorious!

Early morning Lola...she needs a sip of my coffee!

If flowers were smiles...

Plan for the rest of the day?  Making corn and tomato salad, pesto, tomato-basil-mozzarella salad!

That Old College Try

Well, after a long talk with Linda, I've agreed to keep the chickens at least through Fall.  She has a plan that, if we're able to implement it, will make Winter care much easier, and provide electricity to power lights to increase the chances of Winter eggs.  Whether we can see that project through remains to be seen, but at least getting through Fall lets me feel like I gave it a legitimate try!

Chickening Out?

I'm trying to decide if wild enthusiasm followed by deep regrets is my modus operandi, or if I'm just not realistic enough. Do I allow myself to slowly tiptoe into that bracingly cold ocean, acclimatizing myself ever so gradually, or do I wade in quickly, ignoring the cold, sure I'll warm up....and then have a cold, hard smack of reality when that first wave hits?  I think it's somewhere in-between.  I want to go into that ocean, want to ride the waves, let the water take over.  I check the temperature, read the tide tables, then decide that regardless of all that, it's gonna be great and stride right in.  Sometimes it's everything I could wish, being carried to the shore as much by exhilaration as by the water, and sometimes I wind up wave-battered, squished into the sand like a used cigarette butt, dragging myself to the surface and up onto the shore, landing bedraggled and sad on my towel. Until the next time, anyway.

No, I'm not planning a beach vacation (although having taunted myself with the above, am now wishing Linda and I could steal away to some New England beach).  It's the chickens.  Yep, some 9 months after deciding we had to have chickens, 3 months of hard work and too much money, and 7 weeks of being a chicken owner, I'm having serious doubts.  Oh, I researched, read books, joined a 500+ member regional chicken listserv, subscribed to Backyard Poultry and Mother Earth News.  I picked the brains of our chicken-owning neighbors (who laughed at the books, the listserv and my obsessiveness).  I felt ready to enter the world of chickens.

Here's what I didn't know: first, chickens poop, all the time, everywhere; they're really pretty gross about it and don't care where they do it. It's their second favorite pastime after eating (okay, that made me laugh), and right above digging up hostas. People say chickens are smart.  Nope, don't think so.  Stubborn doesn't equal smart.  Chickens do exactly what they want to do.  We may call them 'domestic fowl', but they're worse than cats when it comes to going wherever and doing whatever the spirit moves them to do. Chickens get worms, and I don't mean the early-bird kind.  Even if their coop is kept very clean, and they're given premium food, and ample--and then some--free ranging freedom, they get worms.  If one is a certain type of person, all that equals frustration and stress.  When I first told one friend about the chickens, she said "you do like to complicate your life, don't you?" which kind of surprised me.  No way! I like life simple. I don't think I complicate it, and yet....I consistently take things on, envisioning that fabulous outcome, whether it's something I'm doing for myself or other people, and find myself with regrets.

It seems that at 50, one should stop trying things on and maybe focus on some real commitments, be it to learning to spin, raising chickens, learning to parasail or getting a graduate degree.  Pick something, give it your all...make it work (thanks, Tim Gunn).  Linda says you should never stop trying things on, figuring out what works and what doesn't, what you like and what you love and what makes you miserable (I'm paraphrasing). 

So I'm trying to decide if poultry farming was a huge mistake.  I have this homesteading-wool spinning-picking dinner from the garden-preserving food-chicken raising-and then writing about all of it-Earth mother image of myself. That image doesn't allow room for being prissy about cleaning chicken poop, or figuring out how the heck we're gonna get water and food up to them in the winter, or the stress that comes from constant worrying about these funny little beings that now depend on me for pretty much everything. 

I abandoned something else this year that I really thought I wanted to do, only to discover it no longer gave me any joy.  And maybe that's my answer...although the chickens have amusing moments, and tasty eggs, I'm not feeling the joy.  It feels like one more thing complicating a life I've been working hard to de-stress. Is it quitting to keep seeking out what may bring more joy and discarding what doesn't, the way a chicken tosses the kale out of the bowl to get to the cantaloupe guts at the bottom?  Is there any chance that feasting on the sweetness is wiser than choking down the bitter when there's choice to be had? And if so, does that make me a wisewomon, rather than a quitter?