Once it's been dinged up

A display just waiting for someone like me to come and wreck it. (Image by Sushuti)

My father is incredibly good at taking care of things.

He maintains his home, clothing, musical instruments, vehicles, and personal effects to like-new condition. He never lets the lawn get out of control, and he repaints the house on a regular schedule. 

I wish I had my father’s thoughtful fastidiousness and mise en place, but it is not my natural state. Whereas he has a daily routine of thorough vaccuuming and lovingly polishing the range with Bar Keepers Friend, my usual cycle is to spend days making giant messes and then hours cleaning them up. Whereas he has cared for a collection of vintage guitars for decades with nary a scratch, I am clumsy and absent-minded and frequently break things. 

I would like to be different, and I’m trying. I’m developing better habits and learning to make space for the administrative duties of life, not just the fun parts. In particular, I’ve had to overcome a lifelong habit of wanting to give up or let go completely when something goes wrong or damage is done. Once I’ve messed up, can I ever overcome it? Once it’s been dinged up, is this previously beautiful thing salvageable? 

It’s an all-or-nothing view of the world: I couldn’t be trusted to care for something valuable, so I must be worthless myself. After that, what’s the use in trying? 

I lost my mom’s high school varsity jacket—one of the only sentimental items she had from her adolescence—when I wore it to school as part of some costume in seventh grade.

I left an iron on my ironing board instead of putting it away. Then bumped the ironing board, and the iron fell on top of my guitar, which I had left open in its case instead of putting it away. 

I lost a ring that belonged to my great-grandmother — a giant onyx so big you could see your reflection in it. Eighteen years later, I still dream that I’ve found that ring.

I got myself in credit card debt within two years of leaving college, which happened because I foolishly invested all of the money I had earned working as a waitress in shares of companies I didn’t understand and then lost it all. And I stayed in debt because I kept doing foolish things and paying the price for foolish things I’d already done. At age twenty-four, I went to a dentist who said that I needed twenty-four fillings. And I just took out a loan and got them, digging deeper and deeper into a hole. I screwed up my teeth (I blame raisins), and then I screwed up my finances so that I could screw up my teeth some more. Whee!

This would all be pitiful and tragic if it weren’t for the fact that I am learning. Not only am I learning how to take better care of things, I’m learning how to let go of the shame I’ve carried for the the failures of the past and the perfectionism that would compel me to keep score. This focus on process instead of polish is helping me to stay committed to doing what’s right even when it feels like I’ve already ruined it so badly that it’s hopeless. I’m breaking out of the black-and-white thinking and finding meaning in the gray.

When something is shiny and new, it’s rewarding to engage with it. When you have a gorgeous face, you might as well become an expert at putting on makeup so that you can look even more gorgeous. It’s a little disheartening to start with a canvas that is a bit more splotchy and asymmetrical. What’s the point? And yet, that is what most things are (and what all of us are, too): imperfect works in progress that are nonetheless deserving of love and care. 

So I will continue to regularly service and clean the car that’s got paint peeling off in various places and has a perpetually lit check engine light. I will stop putting food in the pantry where the mice have made themselves known, but I will keep the rest of the kitchen as clean and tidy as I can. I will put moisturizer on my aging face, drink lots of water, and keep the sugar consumption in check. I’ll mow my lawn of weeds and harvest whatever vegetables haven’t rotted or gone to seed. Doing these things may sometimes feel like an exercise in futility—just so many makeshift dams holding back an overwhelming tide of entropy—but I choose to believe that it’s not. Believing that it’s not is what helps.

The guitar with the broken top still sings sweetly even though it’s not too pretty. And my worth as a person can’t be reduced to my tendency toward inattention and haste. Even when something isn’t flawless, it still has value. The same goes for me and you.