Influences

I was a third generation perfectionist in training. Not so much learning what was “perfect” as “perfect is my way.” Evidence of success in this training is a picture documenting my childhood bedroom—all white walls and pure white furniture.

On my desk are a lamp and a desk calendar. Neatly arranged on the dresser are a clock, a jewelry box (white), and an all-white porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary. Above my desk hangs a cross, adorned with a palm frond woven above the figure of a crucified Jesus. The walls are otherwise empty of artwork, or even religious icons. Did I want to record for all time the nearly nun-like sparsity of my room?

Is this the room of a teenager or a future ascetic?

The laws of cleanliness and order so ingrained that I willingly lived this Spartan life. No posters of rock stars, no pictures on the wall, nothing. What can’t be seen in this photograph is the bed in the far corner, perfectly made, including hospital corners. The bedspread is flat and free of wrinkles. On it are three stuffed animals. The first is Archie, a St. Bernard with tongue out and head askew. “Geesh, even the stuffed dog has a religious theme,” my friend says, when he studies the photo. The middle dog’s name is long forgotten. My friend adds, “and they all bark.” The third stuffed animal is a seal.

I knew a man once who, when you asked him how he was, always said “perfect.” Of course I thought he was either lying or under a delusion. That word “perfect” always hung in the air after we spoke.

Annie Lamott wrote, “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor.”
My inner revolutionary took up arms a long time ago. It’s an ongoing battle between control and letting go; to see the beauty in allowing and the wisdom in non-judgment. Permission to make mistakes and be messy is the soil where creativity thrives.

The Oriental dogwood spills over the antique rose. The clematis weaves in and out of the rambling roses until you don’t know where one begins and the other ends. The climbing purple-blue Veilchenblau spills over top of our heads, and like a waterfall, down the sides of Joe’s bentwood arch. The antique rose ‘autumn sunset’ dips and falls through the cedar slat fence. Pruning, if there is any, must be done without looking like a blade has touched a plant. I learned this from a true gardener.

This is Joe’s garden, his expression.

Walk through the garden--past the colors, shades of green, shadows and light, deep blue hostas, rambling roses. Past the stories, the messiness, the allowing of disorder, the invitation to creativity, you will find a small rose-colored trunk in an alcove. Open the lid and inside, wrapped in tissue is a statue, pure porcelain-white.