Presence Over Perfection {rambling reflections}

These past twelve months I've been learning a lesson (and learning and learning and learning): It's called 'Meaghan didn't really think she was a perfectionist but actually she really is'. For a long time I put the idea of perfectionism in a box. It was something that could freeze a person or make getting 'small' tasks done impossible or getting the urge to redo someone else's work because it wasn't up to snuff. I *knew* of people who were frozen by this kind-of perfectionism, and no way was it me. I did things: I learned cello, guitar, piano, sketching, gardening mostly by just doing it. Sure, sometimes I'd be disappointed with the results, but I'd keep trying and trying. No, it wasn't the small things that made me stumble over this perfectionism.

My perfectionism shows up most in the standards I set for myself and the difficulty I have giving myself grace when I fall flat on my face. Perfectionism is a form of anxiety. It's a voice inside of your head condemning you quicker than a speeding bullet, and it lies. A LOT. That voice tells you your mess-up was of EPIC proportions when it was only a stumble or just a 'you have a lot of willpower, but your body is TIIIIRRREEED'. There's not a whole lot of ground being human and being perfect share in common (How 'bout none?), but sometimes we listen to perfectionism and that fear more intensely than we do the Holy Spirit. Oopsy. Here we are condemning ourselves over our lack of perfection while Jesus is up in Heaven interceding on our behalf when Satan condemns us. And condemnation separates which really doesn't help us (*will now put herself back on track*).

The past year has been a fight for me. There's been a lot going on internally. A lot of wrestling with myself. Wrestling between how I feel and what I know and then my flawed thinking patterns. My emotions have been all over the place, and when you feel like an extremely messy person (who is well aware that some of her thoughts are illogical but for the life of her can't get the emotions part to just STOP), you don't really feel like showing up in other people's lives. It's a pride thing. It's a fear thing. It's a 'I've overthought this X10, and now I will be the martyr and save other people from having to put up with me because if I can't deal with myself, how can I expect other people?' thing. It's kind-of stupid because 'oh no! People will now know I'm imperfect', but the whole dismissing feelings doesn't work great.

Because of some not-so-fun experiences in the friendship/people department growing up, my perfectionism appears here a lot. There's this thought that because some friendship didn't work out, it was directly correlated with something I did. I said the wrong thing here. I overshared. Maybe I tried too hard. Maybe I wasn't open enough. Maybe...maybe...That tunnel of thought is long and dark and filled with many under-stretched or over-stretched thoughts. Essentially I created the theory that if I made a mistake or did something stupid once, it could ruin a relationship. There was no room for grace, for the trust that people would give me open communication, for me if I was in a funky mood or was complaining too much or felt too unsure. No safe place. So...Meaghan is now shut for business.

But everyone is under construction, and we go through periods where the very walls of our heart are torn down for renovation, and it feels pretty naked in this place. I don't like it because I don't like sometimes how I feel about myself or how I feel about the whiplash of emotions or fall-out of logic so why would anyone else?  Why would I show this side of myself -- the side that can't even fake perfectionism -- to anyone else? Why would I lean-- how could I lean on their compassion? According to my relationship theory, it's suicide, and yet, I can't walk this path alone. So what are you supposed to do?

I get out of my circular circus of crazy thoughts, and I remember something: those who love you don't need your performances or your pretend perfection. Your presence is most important. Your so-called 'perfection' isn't what they see, anyway. You are you are you even if you are more Eeyore or Piglet than Pooh today, and sometimes you need that presence to remind you who you are when the whiplash of emotions leave you feeling lost or numb. There is laughter and fellowship and bright moments even when under construction, and presence without perfection creates the strongest connection.

Paint Your Soul {poetry}

I'll paint your soul with colors,

the brightest I can find, 

with sunsets and mountain meadows 

and afternoon sunshine.

I'll paint you the color of adventures,

of your hand in mine,

so in these winter months

you'll remember another time,

and even if you can't,

I'll remember it all for you.

I'll etch into your heart

my words of honest hope.

I don't know about tomorrow,

but I know as long as I have breath,

I'll face the dark with you,

just as I danced in the sunshine,

your hand always in mine.

I'll paint your soul with colors

when it grows too dim to be seen.

I'll sing you back your song

when your heart has lost its tune.

I'll add my favorite parts

--your laugh, your smile,

those long car rides

on deserted roads

in the early morning light,

and mostly, your hand in mine --

Those were all my favorite parts

because you reminded me what it means to be alive,

and now it's my turn

to decorate your world with brighter hues

and memories of perfect moments.

I'll paint this darkness with colors

Till it's so bright

your soul can't help but be light.

Your heart can't help but laugh

at the colors I've painted the soul-suffocating night. 

Something a Bit Rusty Like Hope {rambling reflections}

Love is a verb -- it's something we've been told many times and are consistently reminded of.  There are songs about it (*inserts 'Luv is a verb' by DC Talk*).  People teach about it. When you think of all the important relationships in your life, it comes down to 'choosing to love', and not just that, but also to do other actions propelled by this choice to love.

But you know that verse in the Bible about Hope, Faith, and Love? Because love is the greatest, often the other two words slip through the cracks. Hope more so than Faith, and yet, they are all verbs. They are all words of action.

Hope is a verb. I hadn't realized that until recently when I was reading a post on the To Write Love on Her Arms blog. This past twelve months, I've been disappointed, almost ashamed, by the lack of hope I felt. As a Christian, I should have all the hope in the world and my hope should be anchored on something untouchable by life, but I didn't feel hope. So what did that mean? Had I let my hope go?

And yet this blog post I read gave me a different image of hope. The author painted hope as something you do. You show up to life each morning, regardless of how you feel, regardless of the many times you ask yourself 'why', and you do the next thing and the next thing after that. Maybe like love, hope has little to do with how you feel and more to do with your actions.

Hope is more of a trust, and our trust is placed in God -- That He will make our attempts enough, that He will use even our most tired of actions to mean something, that tomorrow's tomorrow's tomorrrow will bring light and life and another spring. Hope is getting up every morning and still believing that someday, eventually, you'll want to try again and you'll have a hope you can hold in your disbelieving hands.

Hope, like Love, is not always dressed with perfection. It's a grittier thing, a stubborn thing. Maybe the 'feeling' is a bird with many feathers, but the real thing is time-resistant, two steadfast boots not about to budge, hands rubbed raw as they hang onto the end of the rope, taking care of yourself even when you ask, 'But why? What's the point?'

       We're imperfect humans in an imperfect world, and any hope less than the hope that involves clinging wouldn't be sufficient. So we will get up. We will lace up those boots, and we will try and try and try, and when hope in tomorrow and our resilience and those around us falters, our hope is 'built on nothing less than Jesus' blood and righteousness'.

Smoke Signals {poetry}

I'll send you a smoke signal

just so you'll know I'm alright.

It won't be much 

or nearly quite enough -- I'll admit it--

and you might even miss it,

but it's all I have the strength to do.

Sometimes...right now I ponder:

what's the point?

Do you even care?

But I remember what you've said

before it turns to ash,

and so that smoke signal comes

or is coming

as soon as I set this fire

or learn how to rearrange my words.

I'm trying to rearrange my words,

but written down,

they lack all meaning.

They're hollow. Too much. Too little.
Do you have the grace to see 

right through my confusion?

Maybe you can just read

between the lines?

Or will this smoke signal suffice?

Will it mold itself into an S.O.S?

Don't bother. 

It's just enough to let you know

I'm alright,

and I promise

I'll come back.

I won't know the date.

I don't know when 

I'll be happy again,

but you'll be the first to know.

Till then, look to the sky.

I promise I'll let you know I'm still alive. 

***

Hey there, I didn't intend to take a week off from blogging, but you know life. I actually persuaded my mom to write a guest post, but she hasn't finished it (she's a little bit out of practice with writing. Still -- I'm excited to share the post with you sometime this month). I've been spending more time and energy on writing stories again, and I've also been rereading some of my old favorite books. I haven't ever really been much of a rereader, but this year I decided to start. So far I've read The Magician's Nephew; The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe; The Gammage Cup and The Whisper of Glocken by Carol Kendall (I dearly love these two books, especially the second one. The characters are endearing, and I even chuckled a few times which is a rarity). Currently I'm working on The Horse and His Boy and Anne of Green Gables, too. I feel like I'm visiting old friends. It's so delightful. What are some favorite books from when you were younger that you'd consider your 'old friends'?