We don’t have to be perfect, just engaged and committed to aligning our values with action.

Perfectionism is the enemy of done.

Good enough is really effin’ good.

I always felt that someone, a long time ago, organized the affairs of the world into areas that made sense—categories of stuff that is perfectible, things that fit neatly in perfect bundles.  The world of business, for example, is this way—line items, spreadsheets, things that add up, that can be perfected.  The legal system—not always perfect, but nonetheless a mind-numbing effort to actually write down all kinds of laws and instructions that cover all aspects of being human, a kind of umbrella code of conduct we should follow.

Perfectionism is crucial in building an aircraft, a bridge, or a high-speed train.  The code and mathematics residing just below the surface of the Internet is also this way.  Things are either perfectly right or they will not work.  So much of the world we work and live in is based upon being correct, being perfect.

But after this someone got through organizing everything just perfectly, he (or probably a she) was left with a bunch of stuff that didn’t fit anywhere—things in a shoebox that had to go somewhere.

So in desperation this person threw up her arms and said, “OK!  Fine.  All the rest of this stuff that isn’t perfectible, that doesn’t seem to fit anywhere else, will just have to be piled into this last, rather large, tattered box that we can sort of push behind the couch.  Maybe later we can come back and figure where it all is supposed to fit in.  Let’s label the box ART.”

The problem what thankfully never fixed, and in time the box overflowed as more and more art piled up.  I think the dilemma exists because art, among all the other tidy categories, most closely resembles what it is like to be human.  To be alive.  It is our nature to be imperfect.  To have uncategorized feelings and emotions.  To make or do things that don’t sometimes necessarily make sense.

Art is just perfectly imperfect.

Once the word ART enters into the description of what you’re up to, it is almost like getting a hall pass from perfection.  It thankfully releases us from any expectation of perfection.

— Nicholas Wilton

— an excerpt from Brene Brown’s Daring Greatly

                                           Chapter I

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. 

I fall in. 

I am lost…I am hopeless.

It isn’t my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out.

                                          Chapter II

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.  

I pretend I don’t see it.

I fall in again.

I can’t believe I am in this same place.

But it isn’t my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

                                       Chapter III

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it there.

I still fall in…it’s a habit…but, 

my eyes are open.

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

                                    Chapter IV

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

                                    Chapter V

I walk down another street.

~~Portia Nelson

My supervisor has been involved with a program this week that is designed to help 8th grade students with the transition into high school.  Today was the first day he’s been in the office all week and so we were recapping the highlights of the our weeks.  

He was reflecting on how great his group was; how well they did with the group challenges and whatnot…he told me about a girl that was in the program —*Bette.  She’s in 8th grade at the school where we run one of our programs; she wears dark clothes and a hat with her bangs hanging in her eyes.  During opening circle they all introduced themselves and set an intention.  Every day she would introduce herself: “I’m Bette.  You can call me Weird-Bette.”  Every day, same intro.  On the last day of the program, they do an exercise with a horse on setting boundaries and being genuine. Horses have an extraordinary sense of people and will not listen to or respect anyone who they sense is not being genuine.  

So Bette is in the ring with the horse.  The horse isn’t giving her the time of day…the director of the program asks her, “are you being genuine?”  She sighs with frustration and says “no.”  After a little while, she stands still and the horse comes right up to her and places its head beside hers.  She rests her head against the horse and starts petting it. She bursts into tears.  The director approaches her and asks, “what’s going on?”  Between sobs, Bette responds, “I’m being genuine for the first time…”  ”You’re not Weird-Bette are you?” the director asks.  ”No,” she shakes her head, “I’m Sensitive-Bette.”

When he told me this story, my skin crawled with goose-bumps and tears crept to my eyes. There is magic in the work that we do as youth-workers.