There’s something magical about making something from scratch, by hand, through boredom and “what do you mean, it isn’t long enough?!?”
(And, it was finished in time for winter! Go me!)
It’s the grey sky, and the chill in my toes. The unseasonal drizzle.
It’s being thisclose to a long, long, long weekend.
I’m so nearly, nearly finished knitting the scarf I’ve been working on for months.
At my desk, supposedly earning my salary, concentration is counted in seconds.
There’s hours, years, to go until I can drive to the airport and bring my love home.
Perhaps it’s all of these things. Today. Time. Is. Moving. So. Slowly.
(Hey, look at that. It turns out that packing boxes make excellent photo backgrounds. How lucky we still have so many lying around…)
“I’m a perfectionist” has for a long time been one of the phrases I repeat by rote when asked to describe myself.
It’s always been on the positive list, you know, next to being gregarious and mostly cheery and kind.
But I’m wondering more and more whether it better belongs with impatience and procrastinating and sometimes being sad for no reason.
Perfectionism is what prevents me from writing every day, it stops me from doodling because doodling isn’t drawing, it is exacting and exhausting and paralysing. It’s what makes me twitch when I see yesterday’s post, and the glaring oversight in the too-heavily edited photograph that is very far from perfect.
I’m scared of making mistakes because I’m a perfectionist. I don’t allow myself time to be a beginner, to learn.
So I’ve left yesterday’s post there, with its photograph. Just don’t tell me you see what I mean. Please.