Pretending Imperfection
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I am of two minds so much of the time! They might both be on the minimal side, whether you’re talking quantity of Thoughts or quality, but they don’t agree with each other as often as I might like. Often enough, they’re not even on speaking terms, despite living in the same brain-pan. Sigh.
One side of me is always excited about the next big thing, the newness and adventures just around any given corner, and the other is nagging me about how unprepared I am for it. One side laughs easily, sings in the car, and opens doors just to find out where they lead, and the other is dragging her heels to stop the impulsive and ready-for-anything side from falling off cliffs or forgetting her keys. And I’ll bet you the rest of the (ostensibly) adult world has the same duality, to varying degrees.
I can’t fix it, and maybe I shouldn’t even try. After all, the ability to temper daring with reason or cheery nonchalance with logic is often useful, if not life-saving. But I can’t help wishing at times that I could just shut the Hall Monitor side up for a bit and let the wild child have free rein, leaving fear and pragmatism behind, if only for an hour or so.
What’s considered high or low culture—or utterly lacking in it—is, like so many of the constructs we imbue with value, determined by our own experiences and beliefs and preferences. We’re all so ready to tout the stuff we do and we like as the world’s best, and to condemn as inferior, ugly, stupid, reprehensible, or outright evil whatever is unfamiliar or not to our taste. A raffish bunch of spray-painting ruffians bring street art to the masses and it expands upward and outward to legitimize graffiti as fine art. Nameless folk art masters labor for decades in their continued anonymity, carving and building pieces out of recycled materials, ragtag odds and ends, and found objects, and some eventually are “discovered” by high-end curators of Outsider Art and get gallery representation, some dying still unknown while their work changes hands until it’s decorating some rich collector’s mansion. Much never comes to light at all. Meanwhile, other artists make millions in a few short, meteoric years despite making works that not every critic respects or every art-lover craves.

Abstract thinking allows us to each see and experience all potential cultural riches in our own ways. Thankfully.
Do we admire and praise a song, a dance, a play, or a novel because it is inherently Good and meaningful, life-affirming, unique, intellectually challenging, or universally considered beautiful? Certainly, there are people who feel that definition applies to one that they prefer themselves, but there is no circumstance in which I could possibly imagine a large sector of any given population agreeing fully on such a thing, let alone the whole world. Our loves must inevitably be seen as provincial or peculiar to those who don’t have an identical context for them. Which is nearly everybody, by nature. I may come from a small farming town in an area with a still vital native American population, set in a highly varied natural landscape and a relatively liberal-leaning political region, and you may come from an urban center where classical and jazz music rule the scene, big business drives the economy, and the artistic trend is funded and heavily influenced by the conservative suburbs where the business moguls’ next underlings and their families live.
Educated or not, religious or secular, youthful or antiquated; every iteration of society and the individuals in it tends to affect the view of what culture is, and what within it is valued. I will admit to being provincial enough myself that I wish everybody on earth generally had the tasteful idea that my creative output is the highest form of written, drawn, sculpted, photographed, invented, designed, and painted culture ever, anywhere. But even I am not delusional and foolish enough to think that the remotest possibility, and short of it, I’d far rather delight in the great range of possibilities that exist in our unbelievably different wishes and tastes and expectations, instead.
For people like me who aren’t naturally brave, just getting up in the morning and leaving the house has its challenges and scary elements. I’m not talking about agoraphobia or even my formerly much higher state of perpetual anxiety, but rather the knowledge that on any ordinary day unexpectedly bad things can happen at any random moment. I know, too, that fabulous and gloriously good things can occur without any apparent reason or preface. And among the many, many things I worry about, even if I don’t outright fear them, are the unknown and loss of an undoubtedly false sense of control.
So when I get the courage to pop out of my cozy little life nest, that place wherever I feel safest and most comfortable and contented, I can have moments of feeling like some little hatchling hopping out off the ledge for the first time, not entirely sure whether my wings work yet or not, let alone whether I will know what to do with them when the time comes. Walking the last mile or so to my doctor’s appointment the other day and seeing a handsome trio of vultures lounging overhead on the telephone poles, I was inclined to make a quick inward note that I hoped the three amigos relaxing up there weren’t also considering me a potentially delicious traveling snack. My hike was, after all, only for a conversational and informational visit to the doctor, so I hoped I wasn’t looking invitingly unwell to their shiny little eyebulbs.
Heading along the highway today and seeing, conversely, the half-flattened remains of some other poor vulture where it had unexpectedly been taught its expiration date by a passing vehicle, I thought the reverse: I wish I could undo your doom, once-graceful bird. The truth is somewhere in between for me, on an average day. Whether I am predator or prey, the day will do with me—and the birds soaring around me—as it wishes. Whether any of us leaving our perches will soar or crash isn’t entirely a matter of choice and will, nor is it wholly chance, but most likely it is someplace in between on an ordinary day. I am so glad that the forces governing us all aren’t utterly capricious but are generally more benign and kindly. Even toward those of us destined to be either road kill or the ones dining on it.
Any homeowner or even mildly obsessed apartment-dweller who likes customizing his or her nest, office, cubicle, or living space knows that there are numerous ‘projects’ that are never officially finished. Most DIY projects of any sort, in fact, are only satisfying right about the time they’re in their last stages of preparation and very, very newly finished. Then we’re on to the next change or update we’ve been itching to see transform our spaces. For me, the Next Big Thing is perpetual: I never quite settle down and stop having new ideas and fantasies. My now-spousal partner knew even before my dad jokingly warned him when we sprang the (not especially surprising) news of our intent to marry that it was not merely in jest Dad told him to expect to come home virtually any day of the week and find the furniture moved all over the place, half the house painted, or the chairs reupholstered. Thank goodness he’s a very flexible, tolerant guy…of course, he wouldn’t be with me in the first place if that weren’t true.
Nowadays I’m lazier and less willing to spend much money on concrete Stuff if I can save it instead for our various retirement plots and plans or spend on current doings. But the urge never dies; there’s always some little tweak or To Do lurking in the back corners of my brain’s attic. The one thing I’ve learned to appreciate better about the process is the slowness of it all that used to irk me immensely. Over the intervening time between idea and execution, the possibility of improving both process and product grows, and in many instances, the availability of a better set of materials and solutions arrives as well. Though I had in mind a nifty reboot of the existing dining room fixture that was, sadly, thwarted by the outdated wiring’s channels being too narrow for me to fit the necessary updated wiring through them, my time pulling apart and cleaning and fiddling with the entire fixture in an unsuccessful attempt to bypass the problem was long enough for a more suitable modern fixture to at last appear on the market at a price I was willing to pay.
Likewise, the wildflower and sapling “nursery” meadow I made out of half our backyard a couple of years ago has taken that long to begin coming to recognizable fruition as such a space instead of merely a raggedy weed patch. The time spent waiting for the (semi-dead, weak little one-dollar end of season) plants I picked up here and there to take root enough to survive longer term, let alone bloom, was well worth it, since those were not seasons of rich encouragement. This year’s mild winter and spring and its extraordinarily generous rainfall are providing a much friendlier environment for the plants now old and established enough for bloom to make their first appearances. So, though you can’t see it behind the blast of rose blooms in the last photo, there have been much more encouraging bursts of growth on a number of patches of chrysanthemums, Echinacea leaves, and myriad wild cousins, with some Salvia and Cynoglossom amabile (Chinese forget-me-not) throwing bright blue sparkles into the mix of pink primroses and green leafy things even before others come into bud.
Kind of the way that one new idea breaks in upon the muddle of all the old ones stirring in the brain while they wait to be put in order for becoming DIY projects and household fixes.
This strange new climate we’ve been experiencing in north Texas lately, never mind on the west coast where drought has reentered the vocabulary for the first time in eons and the northeast where winter and massive storms have ruled in a newly lengthy way, makes me think I’m on another planet. Or perhaps a parallel reality. Whatever it is, it seems a bit surreal and decidedly unfamiliar.
In the last number of days we’ve had more rain, more thunder-and-lightning, and more windstorms—even a small tornado or two touching down not far from our home—than many past years have seen altogether locally. We’ve driven along what are normally pastures and meadows and bone-dry fields and low runoff gullies and seen what looks like it should have the iconic airboats of the southern swamps speeding through: trees and brush sticking out intermittently from extensive marshes where we’ve only ever seen dry land. The phenomenal density and lushness of the grasses and trees, wildflowers in rampant carpets blooming for weeks on end instead of days, and swarms of early insect madness all explode around us in unprecedented extremes.
Then, today, a brilliantly sunny, rather hot, almost cloudless day; it was exactly as I would expect here in a typical mid-May. The rosebush behind the kitchen, shorn before the last storm of its spectacular but doomed bucket full of blooms lest they be beaten to death by the ongoing rain and hail, decides to pop out a couple of fireworks to celebrate the sun’s return. The birds are sunning themselves on every branch and power line as though to soak up rays as quickly as they can. The local lawn crews dash madly from house to house.
Because the weather forecast says we should expect about 7 or 8 days, at least, of rain and thunderstorms to begin again tomorrow.
And isn’t that the way things go? We decide we know how the world will operate, how we expect life to move forward, what we will do within it, and immediately we are given a firm reminder that nature will do as it pleases, that change is inevitable, and that we are small jots on the map of history. The sun will blast its way through a wall of weeks-long storming and then the storms will drop their dousing movable sea back down over the landscape for another round. We make our predictions and forecasts and duck and weave to move through it all as best we can guess we should, and it all changes again.
For now, I am content to adopt a wait-and-see attitude. All of it is rather exciting and surprising and even, welcome. And there’s nothing I can do to stop change. So I’ll just enjoy the weird phenomena as best I can, soak up the rain and then stop and smell the roses between times again when the opportunity arises.
Midhun Antony claims anybody can dance. I have always thought of myself as living proof that even if every single other living creature on the planet can do it, there’s still One Who Can’t. It’s not a point of pride with me; just what I think of as an uninspiring factoid.
But he’s right. It’s unfair, despite my belief I’m being honest in claiming to be a fairly awful dancer, to say that I can’t. Even if my goal is to impress anyone, rather than merely to enjoy the activity for itself, or to express joy—surely among the highest and best reasons to dance, really—can I truthfully claim that a bad dancer is no dancer? How many times have I enjoyed, along with my much-better-dancing friends, the vision of an uninhibited exhibition of movement-to-music by a truly unskilled practitioner? The littlest of children, even those not yet able to stand without support, dance and fearlessly. That is the point! It’s not about skill and coordination or style points, or ballroom etiquette, the vast majority of the time; it’s about happiness and commitment.
A little bonus exercise is not to be sniffed at, either, I should be the first to confess.
If I’m truly so self-absorbed as to think that my dancing should be of any interest to anyone in the room but me or—given the right circumstances—any other person I am dancing to please, at the very least I should keep in mind that letting down my guard so others can have a good healthy laugh at my expense would be a tremendous gift. Some of the best moments ever recorded on film are not only those shared by the Nicholas Brothers or Rogers and Astaire, Alvin Ailey or Mikhail Baryshnikov or Judith Jamison, but also the high and low comedic gifts of attempted dance we also remember with intense fondness. Elaine Benes, I salute you! Chris Farley and Patrick Swayze, I curtsey in awe. I fall down while curtseying, of course, but I do admire your work. In fact, I’ll hazard a little wiggle of sheer glee right now, just because you all make me so happy.