Beautiful Mistakes

This week's quote reads, "Anyone who always tries to do everything right might miss out on the most beautiful mistakes of their life."

As a recovering perfectionist, this quote hit hard. Back in the day, perfection was the goal and I would strive constantly to get there. But never quite did (of course). I have blogged about this before, here. These days, I have learned that "good enough" usually is just that - good enough. If I have made an (almost) invisible mistake in the latest crochet project, which doesn't make a difference to the overall look, I'll let it go.

The Japanese have a special term for imperfection in life: wabi-sabi. According to Wikipedia, "In traditional Japanese aesthetics, wabi-sabi centres on the acceptance of transience and imperfection. It is often described as the appreciation of beauty that is 'imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete'. It is prevalent in many forms of Japanese art." It goes on to say, "Wabi-sabi combines two interrelated concepts: wabi and sabi. According to the Stanford Encyclopaedia of Philosophy, wabi may be translated as 'subdued, austere beauty' and sabi as 'rustic patina'. ... Characteristic principles of wabi-sabi aesthetics and principles include asymmetry, roughness, simplicity, economy, austerity, modesty, intimacy, and the appreciation of natural objects and the forces of nature."

How can we apply this "acceptance of transience and imperfection" to our lives? Most of us find this a lot harder than the odd mistake in something we have created. And yet, change (which is another word for transience) is the only constant in our lives. No matter how hard we try to attain perfection, stasis, something will happen to knock us off balance. I think we somehow need to find the resilience to accept change and move on. 

I learned this lesson the hard way, through being a parent. As soon as my children were born, I strove to be the best parent I could possibly be, to give them the best childhood they could possibly have. And yet, I made every mistake in the book. I also constantly compared myself to other mothers, to my own detriment. Yet I finally learned the truth of the saying, "You can only give your children two things in life - roots to grow and wings to fly." I often found it the hardest thing in the world to stand back and let them go their own way, and learn from their experiences (and their mistakes). Knowing that, if I interfered, they wouldn't grow into their proper selves. Yet also knowing that if / when they did foul up, I would feel as guilty as hell for not intervening. In a way, it was the toughest test of my love for them - stepping back out of the centre of their lives and allowing them to become independent beings. I've been so lucky, that both (like me) have learned from their mistakes and  grown up into loving, caring, functional adults.

Perhaps loving well, and accepting (and learning from) our own imperfections, is the best any of us can do.

The Shape of Grief

I found the image below on Facebook the other day, and it fits my mood perfectly, as it is coming up to one year since my darling Mum died. "Grief is the last act of love we have to give to those we loved. Where there is deep grief, there was deep love."

I miss her so much. Miss being able to share silly, little, everyday things - the latest doings of our grandsons, progress with a crochet or stitching project, shopping for my daughter's wedding dress, how I'm feeling, any particular day. The number of times in the last twelve months I have thought, "I must tell Mum that," and then remembered, again, that I can't. That she is gone.

I cannot wish her back. She was nearly 93, and had commented numerous times in the last couple of years of her life, "I'm ready to go." I hope she is at peace, wherever she is (she was a sound atheist and believed that death was the end of all things). 

It's a weird process, grieving for someone you have loved deeply. At first, it is all consuming, and you think you'll never get over it. You cannot believe that they are really gone, that you will never be able to talk to them, hold them, love them, ever again. Then, time passes, and time heals, and you regain something of an even keel, even though one sweet core of your life is gone forever. But then, something reminds you, and the loss is raw and wild once again. Or that is what I have found. 

And yet, the love remains. I am who I am - mother, grandmother, friend, minister - because she loved me well. And that is what I miss most of all - her unconditional love. She had boundless love and compassion for others, especially her family. And was friendly with everyone she met. She had a knack of striking up conversations with strangers, which I have inherited, a bit. And every time I do, I think of her.

Bless you, Mum. I love you. 

Mary - an Extraordinary Mother

Mary, the mother of Jesus, is perhaps the most enigmatic of all mothers. Her story is simply told. According to the Gospel accounts, she was a young Jewish girl, betrothed to an older man, Joseph. She received an angelic visitation informing her that she was to be the mother of the saviour of the world, whose father would be God. The first thing about her that takes my breath away is her great faith - instead of having hysterics on the spot, which I think would have been quite justified in the circumstances, she accepts her fate: "Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word."

(image: Wikimedia Commons)

I have often wondered what it must have been like for her, bearing and raising such an extraordinary person. Even if we don't believe that Jesus was the divinely-begotten son of God, which most Unitarians don't, he was still very far from an ordinary man.

Mary has complete faith in him and continues to follow him, wherever he goes. She is there at the foot of the cross when he is crucified at the end of his ministry. And according to the Gospel of John, one of his last thoughts is care for her, when he hands her over to "the disciple whom he loved." In the Book of Acts, she is mentioned as being one of those in an upper room with some of the apostles, devoting herself to prayer.

And then she disappears from Biblical accounts. Yet she went on to become one of the most venerated figures in Christianity, not to mention Islam. Later Church traditions argue that not only was she a virgin when she conceived Jesus, but remained one for the rest of her life. Some go even further and state that she was born free of original sin, so that she could be a suitable vessel for the carrying of the son of God. Catholics in particular reverence her as the Blessed Virgin Mary, and she is often prayed to, to intercede on behalf of humankind.

But it is as a mother, an ordinary human mother, that she moves me. She brought him up, took care of him, taught him the best she knew, did her best to give him a good start in the world. Then, as all parents must, let him grow into adulthood. I know that 2000 long years separate us from Mary, but I believe that parenting has not changed. Her concerns must have been much the same as ours. I wonder with what mixture of pride and stomach-knotting fear she watched her son embark on his public ministry? In spite of the message from the Angel Gabriel, at the beginning of it all, it must have taken an awful lot of faith to stand by and let him get on with it, knowing the dangers he would face, and feeling powerless to do anything about it.

I believe that mothering, that parenting, of whatever kind, is the most important job in the world. All of us need somebody we can depend on to love us unconditionally. As Dave Tomlinson writes in How to Be a Bad Christian, "The heart of Christ's message was the love of God. He brought to ordinary people - downtrodden by ruthless rulers - the sense of their belovedness. Each person Jesus touched knew, perhaps for the first time, that their life mattered; that they were loved and cherished."

I cannot believe that he would have been able to do this, had he not experienced this kind of love for himself, growing up. So I think that the most we can do for anyone we care for is what Mary did for her son, to love and cherish them, so that they know they are beloved. So that they in their turn can go on to love others, as Jesus did. As we do, the best that we can.