I was being hard on myself for not finishing a course I’m building.
Then, today after meditating, I remembered myself in high school, in art class, and how long it took me to finish a drawing.
Mr. Cook would usually be the one to say it.
“Cliff, I think you’re just about done there, bub.”
But I’d retrace the lines a little darker, erase and redraw the contour to be a little more round.
I’d always do a few less projects than everyone else. I always ran out of time.
As Gaga would say, “I was born this way.”
Somehow, this notion that my perfectionist ways run deep within me, is reassuring.
The slow launch of my course is nothing new. It’s not about the course. Or the timing.
It’s an inevitably squiggly timeline because that’s how I do things. I take the long way. I toil. It’s who I am. It’s what makes me a great writer, an attentive husband, a dedicated coach. It’s why the sound system for our karaoke parties is so damn good.
I could go on.
I love that piece of me because it’s a piece of me. It’s been around forever.
It prevents things. But it enables them, too.
Perhaps that’s what wisdom is: being able to use the beloved pieces of ourselves in the right way at the right time.
And knowing when to put them away.
I get the sense that I just unlocked something.
Hand raised, pencil down.
Mr. Cook, I think I’m done.
(No last line needed.)