“It’s great to be great, but it’s greater to be human.”

—Will Rogers

I have a confession to make. I’m not perfect. No, really, I know you all thought I was and you’re probably very disappointed to learn otherwise. Oh, wait. You didn’t think I was perfect. I did. Or, more accurately, I hoped you thought I was, if not perfect, then very, very close to it. It gives me great pain—and also great relief—to finally admit, publicly, that I’m flawed. I can be messy, selfish, stubborn, controlling, I hate to admit I’m wrong… I could go on, but my ego is begging me to quit. I’d really prefer to list “faults” that are really virtues in disguise (as we’ve been told to do on job interviews), but I’m finally becoming too old wise not to accept all parts of myself.

I’m tired of being afraid of mistakes and missteps, of being paralyzed by fear of looking foolish or hypocritical. I’m tired of unreasonable expectations (my own and society’s). I’m tired of perfectionism when it comes to appearance or character or accomplishment. I’m tired of trying to force myself into even attempting to look perfect when—newsflash!—NO ONE is perfect. No, not even me.

Why am I so afraid of showing my imperfections, of looking foolish and admitting mistakes? One reason—I feel a certain shame in admitting imperfection. I should always be kind, warm, giving, an excellent writer, wife and mother, and, on top of that, perfectly fit and healthy. (Shouldn’t I?) My people-pleasing, perfectionist little heart doesn’t want to do anything “wrong” and risk rejection. At bottom, I’m truly afraid if I don’t present myself as darn near perfect, I am not “enough”—and I won’t be liked, let alone loved.

I’m not sure exactly where this comes from. Perhaps because I’ve been given so much in my life—in teaching, examples to follow, health, good fortune and opportunity. I feel I have no excuse for not being, at the very least, really, really close to perfection. I don’t want to waste what I’ve been given. However, just because I know better doesn’t mean I can always do better. I’m still human, and to be human is to make mistakes. I’m still working on feeling OK with that.

The funny thing is, pretending to be perfect actually keeps me from receiving the love I want. Sharing mistakes and weaknesses—imperfections—deepens intimacy between people. And keeping up an appearance of perfection means I can’t share my weaknesses with others, and perhaps receive the help and encouragement I need. It also may keep others from sharing their imperfections with me and allowing me to help them.

Life isn’t about being perfect. It’s about growing, learning from mistakes when we make them. My faults don’t define me. They are just threads woven into the cloth of my personality. I also have many good qualities, and it’s the unique combination of faults and virtues that makes me me. I am human, and learning to be happily so. I want to be loved in spite of and because of my faults. I can’t hide them, from myself or from others. I’m taking to heart Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton’s words: “If you wish to be loved, show more of your faults than your virtues.”

“Unlike success and failure, contribution has no other side. It is not arrived at by comparison. All at once I found that the fearful question, ‘Is it enough?’ and the even more fearful question, ‘Am I loved for who I am or for what I have accomplished?’ could both be replaced by the joyful question, ‘How will I be a contributor today?’”

—Rosamund Stone Zander and Benjamin Zander, The Art of Possibility 

As I write this, I look out my office window at the greenness of spring in Florida—our oak trees have mostly leafed out, my crepe myrtle has the tiniest bronze leaflets clinging to its bare limbs and I know in time it will bear ruffley lavender flowers. A cardinal is visiting the bird feeder, his red feathers bright against the greens and browns of the front yard. I’m listening to acoustic guitar music on Pandora, and I have my window open to smell all that green leafiness and hear the birds’ songs more clearly. Not only do I enjoy looking and listening to the beauty around me, I find that it has a calming and uplifting effect on my mood.

While most people would not argue that beauty is nice, is it something we all need? Best-selling author Piero Ferrucci thinks it is, and explores that topic in his book Beauty and the Soul: The Extraordinary Power of Everyday Beauty to Heal Your Life.

Ferrucci believes that beauty is an essential ingredient in a happy, healthy life. He writes, “Beauty plays a central role in our decision to be here. The more we can perceive beauty in our surroundings, and also inside us, the more we will feel at home and glad to exist. Some perceive beauty in the sound of rain and shape of clouds, in people’s faces and voices, in birdsong and the rustling of leaves. Some see it in modern design or ancient embroidered silk, in a cathedral’s stained glass or an advertising poster, in the flowering of intelligence or in altruism, in musical phrasing or the melodic rhythm of poetry, in the dynamism of a statue or the lightness of a dance. For such people the world is a place of great interest, of continuing amazement. Their relation with life is erotic: They are in love with life.”

Ferrucci also notes that contact with beauty makes us less angry and anxious, and that Swedish studies indicate that those who attended theater, movies, concerts and exhibitions have a greater chance of longevity. One explanation is that beauty stimulates the immune system.

Of course, beauty doesn’t just exist in cultural events and experiences. Beauty is everywhere—we just need to notice it. To improve our ability to seek and find beauty, Ferrucci suggests keeping a diary of what we find beautiful, slowing down and paying more attention to what is all around us (“Hurry usually obliterates all forms of beauty”), and removing the attitudes that hamper beauty (“I don’t deserve it, it’s a waste of time, there are better things to think about…”).  As he notes, “Attention is nourishing. Anything we give our interest to grows and develops. Anything we neglect or ignore atrophies. Attention is like a spotlight on a theater stage. It gives emphasis. The world is what it is, but we provide the accent. We look for beauty, give it our vital interest, create space for it. Then beauty will proliferate for us.”

Beauty lifts up the soul, lightens burdens, gives hope and inspiration—all things we so desperately need in this world. If we seek beauty in our lives, we will add to our happiness.

What do you find beautiful? How can you add beauty to your days?

Photo courtesy Liz West

My parents didn’t live long enough to be confronted with the notion of paying for a bottle of water. They’d be horrified. Pay for water? Who ever heard of such a thing? Well . . . Here’s a good poem by Kim Dower, who lives in Los Angeles, about what we go through to quench our thirst today. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Bottled Water

I go to the corner liquor store

for a bottle of water, middle

of a hectic day, must get out

of the office, stop making decisions,

quit obsessing does my blue skirt clash

with my hot pink flats; should I get

my mother a caregiver or just put her

in a home, and I pull open the glass

refrigerator door, am confronted

by brands—Arrowhead, Glitter Geyser,

Deer Park, spring, summer, winter water,

and clearly the bosses of bottled water:

Real Water and Smart Water—how different

will they taste? If I drink Smart Water

will I raise my IQ but be less authentic?

If I choose Real Water will I no longer

deny the truth, but will I attract confused,

needy people who’ll take advantage

of my realness by dumping their problems

on me, and will I be too stupid to help them

sort through their murky dilemmas?

I take no chances, buy them both,

sparkling smart, purified real, drain both bottles,

look around to see is anyone watching?

I’m now brilliantly hydrated.

As I mentioned in “Hello Sketchbook, My Old Friend,” I’ve been taking Laure Ferlita’s An Imaginary Visit to a Past Vacation class. Not for the first time, I noticed I’m learning more in art class than simply how to sketch—I’m learning lessons that easily expand beyond the art studio. As in art, so in life:

Preparation makes everything easier… Laure encouraged us to do thumbnails (quick sketches in a junk journal to figure out placement of images and lettering).  Before starting a sketch, I made sure I had my palette, full waterbrushes, paper towels and tissues, my color chart, my reference photos, and a scrap piece of watercolor paper if I needed a quick color check. Once I started, I didn’t want to have to stop to hunt something down. This is also a good way to approach new projects and experiences: figure out what resources you need to have before you get started so that you can proceed smoothly.

…but sooner or later, I have to start. I sometimes let myself get stuck in preparation mode, forever putting off action. Facing a blank page in my sketchbook feels remarkably like facing decisions or starting major projects. Once that first mark hits the page—or I take that first action—I usually relax and can continue without too much fuss and bother.

I’m often my harshest critic. I was pretty happy with my sketches in this class, but in previous classes, I have been frankly embarrassed to share my work. I could see only the flaws in it, how it wasn’t what I wanted it to be, and how (I felt) it wasn’t as good as everyone else’s. My fellow classmates always found something good to say, and ways to encourage me not to give up. When I comment on my classmates’ art, I always look for something specific that I like about it, and I can always find it. I should be so generous with myself! I have a feeling my art isn’t the only area where I’m much harder on myself than is necessary.

As always, I had a great time in Laure’s class, and was able to take away more than just the beginnings of a new sketchbook. I still have one more assignment to complete, so excuse me while I get ready, get started, and ease up on myself.