“How’s the writing?” Several people have asked me that this week.
“Well,” I laugh, “the hangers in my closet are all the same color and I’ve been making some interesting food.”
Susanna and I have been doing some planning. I’ve put some words together that I’ll send her later this week. But I’m continuing to master my procrastination skills. I haven’t done nearly as much as I wanted to.
Every time I’ve turned around this week I’ve been confronted with my not-enough-ness. I’d like to say that I’m a recovering perfectionist, but I think that might be a stretch. I’m still more perfectionistic than I’d like to admit.
The problem is that no matter how much I do, it’s not enough. I just can’t measure up to the standard in my head of who I “should” be.
This morning I get to call the dentist. Six months ago my hygienist told me that if I didn’t straighten out some of my habits I was going to wind up with a cavity this summer.
It looks like she may have been right.
In my nineteen years of having teeth, I haven’t had a single cavity. But in the chaos of this year dental hygiene wasn’t always a priority. Still, the worst thing about this is knowing I could have prevented it. I could have, but I didn’t.
It’s funny, though, because this perfectionism is one of the things we’re writing about. As the story began to take shape it was a thread that wove its way through the entire year. More often than not I have had a hard time extending grace to myself.
So today, I will let it be enough. Not because I have done “enough” but because I am not what I do. This is the good news for us. We don’t have to measure up. We are loved. We are his.