How I Cured Myself of Perfectionism
I am having a problem with my garden. The spot where my tomatoes once flourished, just along the side of the green stucco wall of my garage, is now producing substandard tomatoes.The plants that used to produced plump red and orange cherry tomatoes now give me fruit no bigger than a pea.I water and caress the vines and beg them to grow. I do whatever I can to help. I let the sunshine and soil do the rest. But nothing helps.Every day the overripe pea tomatoes fall from their perches into a pile under the vines. I stare at them, wondering whether it’s worth picking them up. What can I do with underdeveloped imperfect fruit while still dreaming of the perfect cherries?We want it in gardens, our work, and even our partners. Why are we programmed to desire the perfect?
I know I am not perfect, but I am trying really hard to be perfect, and it’s exhausting.I see the ideal all around me, and I run toward it.I see beautiful young women with flawless complexions on television and in magazines — I know they are Photoshopped to look better and smoother than an actual human face — yet I still wish my face was just as perfect.I look to the groomed garden of the next-door neighbor, who prunes and trims her trees and flowers for hours a day.I trim and cut, plant, and mow to keep up with the Jones’ but fall flat on my face each time.Come to think of it, I actually like the wildness of my garden. It has a kind of freedom I wish I had.Things can’t always be just right, and that’s okay.When imperfect parts appear, they tell a story.
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