Thoughts on Perfectionism at 3 a.m.

My newest book is out, and I got the box of author copies this week. As is my usual practice, I instantly plopped down to read my own book the minute it arrived, eager to see if any typos managed to get through and how the paging worked out. Seeing your own words on your computer screen is one thing; seeing them in print with page dividers and headings is another.

I read until late last night, but at 2:30 I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep (thank you, menopause), so I came downstairs to finish reading All My Loved Ones. And well...how do I say this? I'm not sure I like my own book. I mean, it was fun to write, I fell in love with the Finn character (that's his name, not his nationality), and I supposed it was a worthy effort. But I can see places where I could have used better wording, I think some of the plot elements should have been handled differently, it turned out with a stronger religious flavour than my other books -- perhaps more than I intended -- and...yeah. It isn't my best work. I kinda wish I could retract it.

The thing is, NONE of my books are my best work. Every time the box arrives and I read one of my own stories, I find flaws in it. Things I wish I could add or change. New ideas I wish I could go back and incorporate. I'm never satisfied with the final product. Some are better than others. But none are perfect.

I'm the same way with conversations I have -- I find myself later rehashing them and wishing I'd said things differently, approached people differently. Honing the words in my mind even though it's too late to say them. They're never quite perfect.

It isn't just about words and the role they play in my life. It's other things too -- the cabbages that don't grow as big in my garden as I'd envisioned, the slight waver in the coloured thread in the towel I'm weaving, the not-quite-right flavour of the stew. The strayed-from diet, the dog that still hasn't learned not to jump up on people, the weeds in the flowerbed, the unevenness in the stained glass leading. Just never quite what I was aiming for. Do you know, I still remember the one wrong answer that kept me from getting 100% on a hairy English test in 1986?

Now, a rational person would say "Nothing is perfect." And I know that intellectually. I'm familiar with the "a man's reach should exceed his grasp" yada yada. But if I know that, why do I feel so grumpy when I don't attain perfection? I am convinced I would be a much happier person if I could just lower my expectations. I know I'm not alone in this. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we expect more from ourselves than we do of other people? What is it engrained within us that keeps us aiming high even when we know we'll miss the mark?

On the other hand, I think I'd rather aim high and miss than aim low and hit the target every time. How boring would that be? But still, it would be fun to hit the target at least some of the time!

I do think I was worse about it when I was younger, and as I've grown older I've become a little less hard on myself. A little more understanding, tolerant, and practical. (On occasion, perhaps even overly self-indulgent.) I do know that I'm still a valuable person even if I drop a stitch while knitting. My self-worth isn't entirely wrapped up in turning out the perfect result, and I do have small moments of temporary triumph. 

The process of becoming a polished and presentable human being takes a lifetime, and meanwhile, if we're running the track too intently, we'll miss the lovely view on the way. There needs to be a balanced way to strive for improvement without being anxious about it. A way to use our failures and flops as impetus to move upward.

It's now 4:00 and I'm going to stop typing and go read some Susanna Kearsley, because her books are perfect!

Inter-generational Trauma

I went to the dentist today with a cracked molar. My dentist is Armenian, so I mentioned I was currently writing a mystery that has an Armenian detective in it. This led to a discussion of the most recent attacks on Armenia and the horrible economic and political situation over there. None of the superpowers will stand up for Armenia, because of Turkey's political pull and money and strategic location.

And then he paused working on my tooth and just talked, telling me about his family's history. His grandmother, great-aunt, and great-grandmother were the only three out of their family of 150 to survive the genocide. His grandmother, only about four years old at the time, saw her family decapitated and mutilated before her eyes. As he spoke, I could hear the emotion in his voice, the passion he feels for his homeland, and his frustration at not being able to do anything about what his people are enduring. The genocide happened many years ago, but President Biden only recently finally acknowledged that it was, indeed, a genocide. And the attacks continue. The distress and pain behind this ordinarily mild man's words were tangible.

At one point, he said, "How would you feel if someone came in and killed all your family and took your home?" And I thought, well, they did, and we had to flee the country and head for Mexican Territory (now Utah). But we didn't suffer anything on the scale of what the Armenians went through.

This got me to thinking about inter-generational trauma, and how the suffering of one's ancestors is still alive and felt by their descendants. I grew up with folk songs, sung in my family, about the burning of our homes and fields, the betrayal by the state governor, about how God saved his people. Songs about burying our dead on the plains, hidden beneath campfire ashes to hide the bodies from the wolves. I was told bedtime stories about great-great-great-grandpa who escaped from jail by outwitting the guard's dog, about another grandfather who had to keep a horse saddled all the time in the barn in case the U.S. marshals came for him. Those stories and songs are valuable to me as part of my heritage, and even though the personal persecution I've experienced has been small, I still feel (and in some ways treasure) that tremor of memory handed down through my family.

Right now the indigenous people of Canada are going through their own fallout from the residential school system, and the earlier generation's memories can't help but filter down to their children and grandchildren. The recent discovery of over two thousand graves has brought that trauma to the fore in new ways. The reverberation of history continues down through the generations, to both those whose families suffered and those whose families caused the suffering. None of us escape that history.

I wish at some point the earth and its peoples could just rest. Until then, we need to be very, very kind to each other, because--in ways we may not easily see--each of us is feeling pain from something.

Happy Vegetables

The garden is loving the high heat and rainfall we've gotten lately. The squash and cucumbers are going crazy, the carrots, beans, cabbage, and beets are looking really healthy, and the lettuce and onions have gone to seed.

spaghetti squash

Ireland Creek Annie dry beans

cucumbers

cabbage

butternut squash

carrots & beets

spaghetti squash

gone to seed - herbs, onions, lettuce, kale

spaghetti squash baby

Finally, Family!

The Covid restrictions have eased enough now that we were able to get together as a family in the backyard for my son's birthday celebration yesterday. It's the first time we've all been together in about a year and a half (minus one daughter-in-law, who had to work). The eight of us sat safely distanced on chairs in the shade on the lawn and ate grilled burgers and potato salad and root beer floats, and it was just...normal. Grandkids splashing in the pool. Sons laughing together. I sat there listening and just thinking I've missed this.

I may not be ready psychologically to go out into public yet, but this small step in the backyard felt good, and momentous.

Kindness everywhere

A lovely thing happened to me the other day. I went out to trim my front hedge just after the yard-waste truck came by to make its pick-up, so I missed it. It would be two weeks before the next pick-up. Ah well. Still needed to be done before the rain came. I finished mine and then trimmed my neighbour's hedge too. 

As I was finishing, the other garbage truck came by to empty the compost bins (two separate trucks make the rounds). The truck stopped beside where I was working, idled a moment, and then the driver got out. He asked if I had a bag. I pointed to the one in my driveway. And without any fuss, he simply helped me rake and bag the hedge trimmings. I remarked that I'd missed the yard-waste pick-up, but he said he'd take it with the compost, put the bag in his truck, told me I'd done an excellent job, and drove away. Wasn't that the sweetest thing? Now I don't have to store a rain-soaked bag for two weeks.

There are kindnesses everywhere if you look for them.

My publisher, Cedar Fort, is having a giveaway for books being published in August, which includes mine, All My Loved Ones.

All you have to do is sign up for their newsletter and you are automatically entered in this giveaway. If you are already receiving their newsletter, you still need to fill out this form to enter. After you submit, you will receive a 20% off coupon.

Instructions: Select ONE book that you are most interested in. Cedar Fort will pick giveaway winners for each title and notify them on August 3rd in the newsletter. It would be great if you'd pick mine! Many thanks, and I hope you win!

https://forms.gle/om99QKhfEkxNisAP9

Canada Day feels different this year

Ordinarily Canada Day is commemorated with parades and picnics and fireworks. I enjoy celebrating with gratitude the country I have chosen to call home. But lately I've begun to realize that not everyone sees this holiday in the same way. My view has opened up more to others' perspectives. And especially this year, in light of the recent discoveries -- and more to come, I'm sure -- of children's unmarked graves associated with the residential schools, I think Canada Day should be observed differently. And I think it should be a permanent change, to observe the day, not with fireworks, but with prayer. May we learn from this. May we never allow atrocity in this land. May we reach out to those who are hurting. May we stand as a shield against racism and persecution and speak up when something is wrong. May we have the courage to face our roles in the pain others are experiencing. May we heal as a community and draw from the best in each other. May we vow to be better.