Imperfect Intent

Bin it. Chuck it. Trash it. Dash it wey. However you want to say it, it’s the end of a garbage year.

And yet…

It’s not going to be dumped in some landfill and forgotten. It’s part of the future. The pandemic will continue past midnight. 2021 isn’t going to be a fabulous clean slate ushering in an era of unicorns and sudden robust health for all. The stench of 2020 is going to seep into the new year.

When I was a starry eyed girl one of my favourite words was tabula rasa. I loved the feel of it in my mouth, all those full vowels and the rolling r, the exotic proclamation of a ‘clean slate’.
Tabula rasa, a fresh page void of mistakes, nothing but promise. Each year I’d vow to write a better story and toss aside the crumpled, crossed out pages of the last year.
The disease of perfectionism is that I only ever focus on what didn’t work, what needs fixing. Tabula rasa created a groundhog day effect; revise and edit over and over again. I wasn’t setting new goals as much as resolving to improve on what had been imperfectly achieved. Gradually resolutions evolved into intentions; gentler wording softened the sting of failure when I fell short. Perfectionists always fall short. Again, no specific plan, just a vow to be better. I was evolving. <insert eye roll>

This is what I’ve learned in my year of quarantine and quiet. While there were incredible challenges and heartbreaking loss there were also moments of celebration and breathtaking joy. It is ever thus. There is always a little ugly in the Beauty but we often look past it, and the Beast has a redeeming quality or two if you take the time to look. It is only because I slowed down and really looked at where I stood in the gutter that I saw the rose petals scattered there too.
Life is not a fucking cliché. It really is a beautifully complex, exhausting and exhilarating journey. There is no evolution without effort and some growth spurts are more painful than others. 2020 was riddled with collective growing pains and some of us hurt more than others. Let’s celebrate the win of getting through it.

I have a new favourite expression, wabi-sabi. It is the Japanese thought that beauty can be found in imperfection. It recognizes that existence is imperfect and impermanent. There is no writing over this year. I can’t just put a fresh page on shit and carry on. The shit seeps through, it can’t be ignored or erased. But it can be incorporated into a new story. Like the golden cracks of a ceramic repaired using kintsukuroi, the Japanese the art of mending with gold. The new object is a thing of beauty and resilience.
It was hard earned but this was a year of beauty and resilience.
I am the sum of all my parts, the traumas and the triumphs. My flaws, quirks and maddening bits are the spice of me. They are the golden veins in my once broken spirit.

Tomorrow is a new year. But every day is new. Every day is an opportunity to create beauty out of the broken. My intention for each day is to notice the rose petals in the gutter and keep moving forward.