On Being a Work in Progress

I tell myself I should know better. I remember the tantrums I had as a child, trying to draw something, or play something on the violin, or write a story or poem. I expected perfection on the first try. I thought the final product was something that came out of artists shining and intact, and here all I could produce was stick figures. It took years for me to learn that the process was messy. That learning a relaxed, effortless vibrato would mean hours upon hours alone with a metronome. That getting the nose to look like it belonged on a real face would mean using up all my erasers. That finding one right word would mean weeding out countless wrong ones. That everything I put in—all the hours, everything discarded, would wind up at my feet around the finished product.

I am looking around at a mess. Books everywhere, crumbs on the table, paint brushes by the sink, laundry stacked in piles, waiting to be put away. I treasure pictures of neat homes—paper neatly stacked, paints organized, bookshelves alphabetized, pantries straight. I aspire to calm and order, and regularly realize that it is beyond my grasp.

And yet. If my life is my final testimony, I should expect it to be messy right now, shouldn’t I? I should expect mistakes, and learning, and the tools for learning scattered everywhere. If there are books lying around, somebody has been reading. If there are paints left out to dry up, and paint brushes scattered around the sink, somebody has been painting. If there are crumbs all over the table, waiting to be wiped off, somebody has been eating their fill. If I’ve made a million mistakes, I’ve most likely learned a thing or two. If I need a rest, it may be a sign that I’ve been hard at my work. Maybe the mess all around me only looks like chaos because I haven’t seen the end product yet. And maybe I can trust that the end product will be something I love a lot more than a glossy photograph in a home and garden magazine.