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At its root, perfectionism isn’t really about a deep love of being meticulous. It’s about fear. Fear of making a mistake. Fear of disappointing others. Fear of failure. Fear of success. -Michael Law- Perfectionism is a hard habit to break. I speak from experience. It wasn’t always a negative trait. In fact, it boded well for most of my working life in interior design. Those magazine worthy spaces didn’t just happen naturally. I didn’t just back up a truck, dump some fancy Italian furniture and accessories into an empty white room and call it a day. As anyone with an eye for detail will tell you, it takes hours and days and weeks (sometimes months or years) to plan and gather and create perfect rooms and homes, often turning lemons into lemonade or in my case, a blank canvas into a Picasso. The problem with being a perfectionist is it is a recipe for burn out because eventually you learn it is impossible. Life is messy. Moving from the city to the country has revealed this reality with all the subtlety of a bull in a China shop. Or, in fitting with the landscape here, the fall of a century old Elm tree crashing into the water mere inches from our dock. I was preparing dinner one evening in March while it was doing its best to go “out like a lion” when I heard what I can only describe as the sound a slap of a Brontosaurus tail into our lily pond. It was a cloudy, starless night so I did not discover the source of this mystery whooshing sound until morning. We knew the tree had been dead for as long as we have lived here and probably for many years prior so it wasn’t a surprise when its roots and the surrounding soil holding it in place finally gave way with one giant gust of wind that stormy night. We had spent many evenings dockside contemplating the future of that tree. Can we cut it down? Are we allowed to? Do we hire a tree service? It really was an eyesore…to us. But if you were to ask the Pileated Woodpeckers, squirrels, chipmunks, minks and beavers their humble opinions, well, they just would have called it “home”. Clearly they hadn’t inherited the perfectionism gene. A funny thing had started to happen to me after we moved here to Kyeema North. Mother Nature was softening my hard edges - my need to trim and sculpt my surroundings until every blade of grass was even and weeds were poisoned and trees were pruned to resemble my version of what a tree should look like. It was as unnatural as Michael Jackson’s nose or Lisa Rinna’s lips. Had I thought for a moment to consult Mother Nature for her opinion, she would have told me in no uncertain terms that it was already perfect, as were the celebrity faces. The woodpeckers were hastily evicted without notice - the stores of nuts carefully stashed in its many holes were cast into the muddy shallows and the curve of the trunk created a perch at the top end poking up out of the water like the masthead on a pirate ship. Come spring, after the ice melted, it became a much loved turtle resort. Lining themselves along the trunk like shiny oiled up beach babes, sunning themselves, these new tenants were in Paradise. I imagined they would draw straws each morning to see who got to sit on the tip - masthead “maiden of the day”. Some days, frogs would share their new found beach. Whenever I would approach the dock, the entire lot of them would decide it was time for a swim. Splashing sounds would fill the air as I frantically tried to get a photo before they all disappeared into their murky pool. This is how they have been spending their spring and summer here at Kyeema North or “Camp Long Stump” as it was called in the brochure. They had me now. How could I dare take all this away from them? The tree would remain. Rest in peace right where it was. No one was going to accuse me of ripping away a frog and turtle habitat. Still, the view of that massive upturned Elm root system clotted with mud and clumps of embedded rocks was, from my POV, pretty nasty looking - evil almost. So our dockside chats became creative idea sessions on what we could do to improve the “curb appeal” as we descended the rickety steps to the dock. There was talk of building a wooden screen around the ugliest section and thoughts of a chainsaw sculpture but apparently all that rock and soil are bad for the chain and wouldn’t that be leading us into “unnatural” territory? As time passed and we had moved on to more pressing matters, we stopped thinking about the unsightly stump. After awhile, like our slowly expanding waistlines, we stopped noticing it so much. By May, it had started to sprout. Not the tree itself, but organic life began appearing in all the nooks and crannies of the bark on the trunk and the roots - anywhere a wayward seed landed, it grew. The dead Elm had become a breeding ground for lost souls. That’s when I decided to help it along and add some seeds of my own. Prettier seeds (always the decorator). I wasn’t sure if the thin layers of soil that remained on the root system would be enough of a foundation for them, but sure enough, now that gnarly old uprooted Elm tree is a natural flower pot - the decaying wood a source of nourishment. The Nasturtium seeds I planted are beginning to blossom giving the fallen Elm a proper burial with flowers beginning to form a garland around its exposed raw roots. We don’t always have the opportunity to see the circle of life as clearly as this. We are witnessing this dead Elm tree - feeding new life so obviously, as though his fall wasn’t really his last swan song. If he could talk he might say, “I may be ancient and dead but there is an incarnation happening here. In my last life, my purpose was to provide shade and a place for birds to perch and I prevented erosion. I was busy. This time around, I am a food source and a resting spot for frogs and turtles and a throne for Great Blue Herons. I may not look perfect but I am still useful.” In my previous life, It is unlikely I would have seen a fallen tree in the same way. I see many things differently now. Dandelions are no longer a pesky weed - they are food for bees. Shoreline shrubs are not scruffy tangles to be slashed to the ground - they prevent erosion. The wildflowers in the meadow are butterfly magnets. I’m not just getting older, I’m gathering wisdom. Living in harmony with the flora and fauna that surrounds me has required me to leave my perfectionistic tendencies behind in the city. You won’t find any manicured lawns or potted topiary trees flanking the front door here at Kyeema North. And I have gladly traded in my Stuart Weitzman pumps for Birkenstocks but… As the ultimate queen of perfection, Martha Stewart, would say, (and I agree) “It’s a good thing.”
3 Comments
Cuz
8/4/2022 05:17:33 am
Circle of life. That was a lovely morning story. Thanks Cuz. I am really enjoying your new blog. 😊
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Deb
8/4/2022 10:49:09 am
Glad you are enjoying my stories. I love telling them.
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Leigh
9/10/2022 05:38:58 pm
Great read again with my morning coffee.
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DEBunked.I see nature as a metaphor for life. Please join me on this journey down the garden path as I explore life through story - a shovel in one hand and a camera in the other. Archives
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