The one-word prompt is “fight”. Of course I think of the violent version first, then push it out of my mind. I don’t want to think about violence and besides, it seems so generic to me.
So then I naturally think of the epic fight I’ve been having with cancer these past 7 months. So far I’m winning by the way, but I don’t want to write about it. Then I think of the fight I always have with perfection. Striving for perfection in my art, photography, how clean my house is. Stuff like that.
I’m very critical of my art. I always see the flaws and it bugs me no matter how insignificant they are. Other people would most likely not notice the blend of the paint is not quite as smooth here or there, but I know it’s there and I am compelled to fix it. I have to remind myself that nothing in this world is perfect and that I have to force myself to stop nitpicking every little thing. I guess I’ve passed that gene on to my son because he is the same way about his photography. Oddly, I’m not quite as obsessed about my photography. I think maybe it’s because I don’t know as much, and I’ve had to take a LOT of pictures on the fly, going down the road, or I wouldn’t have gotten anything. I mean, we couldn’t stop every few minutes just because I wanted a picture. We’d never have gotten anywhere. Hubs is great about stopping a lot for me though.
It seems that my house is never completely clean and I am always fighting the dust and clutter and disarray. With the chemo, I’ve been so tired and unable to do much that it’s driving me batty. Brain says, “Oh! Look at that dirt on the floor! Look at that mess on the counter! Look at the bed un-made. You should take care of that!” Body says “Nope. Try it and I’ll drop you like a rock. You know I can do it too. Dizziness don’t play.” So Body wins that fight, although I have snuck in some dusting here and there.
(Not my house, although it feels like my house sometimes. Especially when I haven’t even gotten everything unpacked from the move yet.) This is actually part of an antique store/warehouse in Texas.
Why is there that drive for perfection? I know it’s unattainable. My best is only near-perfection, if that. In reality, it’s probably closer to half-perfection. But I cannot think about that. I’d have to go back & work harder if I thought about that for very long.
Man, I just looked over at the kitchen counter and I’m fighting the urge to go over there and take care of it. I’m losing.