Living with imperfection
They call it black and white photography, but it’s made up of shades of gray. (Image by Michael Gaida)
My mind was blown when I figured out I could fix mistakes in my knitting.
Even if I saw a mistake several rows back, I didn’t have to rip everything out. I didn’t even have to rip out all the rows between me and my mistake. I could simply release a stitch or two, do some surgery, and then it would be like the mistake never happened.
Since I make lots of mistakes, this is something I’ve gotten pretty good at.
Of course, there are some mistakes for which repair would take several hours — or it’s just straight-up impossible. Hopefully these mistakes are also in the category of “no one would notice this but the pattern designer” or “I have to hunt to find that twisted stitch anyway.” I let them go.
Being able to fix mistakes takes practice. Being able to live with unfixable mistakes takes practice, too.
I have worked with a lot of people who struggle deeply with this: Either their work is perfect or trash. Sadly, for some, this thinking even extends to their very identity: If they, themselves, can’t be faultless, they are worthless.
This black-and-white thinking hurts students and undermines their efforts. The pain of imperfection causes them to crumple up and discard a piece of artwork or an essay without letting anyone see it. The fear of messing up means that they might skip auditions and tryouts. They’ll invest hours in their work and have nothing to show for it.
Not only are they making it harder to get anything done, they feel awful about themselves. Because each attempt to do something or create something is seen as a test of their value as a person, they are paralyzed. It’s not worth the risk of discovering (or revealing to others) that they are stupid, bad, untalented, or just plain wrong.
I remember experiencing this when I tried to write songs. Instead of accepting that, as a growing songwriter, I would probably not be on the level of Bob Dylan or Smokey Robinson, I rejected countless ideas, left most drafts unfinished, and hesitated to share the songs I did complete. I viewed my failed attempts as evidence that I was (and would always be) a crummy songwriter.
To turn things around, two things helped.
The first was to to focus on the process instead of the finished product. When I let go of what the finished song would sound like, I could enjoy the experience of exploring words and sounds. I didn’t have to think about what I would do with the song or how it good it would be or who would hear it. Instead of seeing each potential song as proof that I wasn’t very good, I could see each one as an opportunity to practice my craft and hone my ability, actually helping me to become a better songwriter.
The second helpful practice was to find a community. I hung out with other songwriters. I listened to their songs and, in the spirit of reciprocity, shared my own. I read books, found songwriting communities, and went to conferences. I reached out for help. I found friends who, though they weren’t songwriters, could always be trusted to be encouraging and kind when I performed brand-new songs for them. I supported friends’ events by participating as a performer. Focusing less on myself and more on connecting with others — in my best moments, serving others — released me from obsessing about my own work.
Acknowledging that we are human and therefore works in progress helps us to accept that our deeds an creations are not aways going to be buffed and polished to the highest level of shine. When something isn’t ideal, it doesn’t mean that you have to start over. You’ll gain so much more by pushing through the discomfort of imperfection to finish what you start. Seek the help you need to embrace the feeling of following through. When you get used to it, the satisfaction of completing a project outweighs the pain of falling short of the ideal you hold in your mind. And as you practice this, you may find that your results will eventually nudge a bit closer to what you’re looking for. You’ll never know until you try.