and yet every time my heart gives a tug I find myself here..reading my own stories…sliding into my own hide.
Every crosspoint reveals a conflict..not of right and wrong anymore, but of right and real.
You can get a great recipe, meticulously measure the ingredients, follow each and every instruction and orchestrate a great meal – you can’t really go wrong here. It’s tried, tested and reviewed – it works. If you make a mistake, you can try again – the recipe doesn’t change and you’re bound to eventually get it right.
Getting it right is just so important; making the perfect meal, winning every competition, planning every moment with the vision of being the girl that everybody is clapping for – the laurels, the praises.
I spent 10 days with a family who doesn’t care about always getting it right. I cooked without a recipe, with a woman who threw in the spices, doused herself in wine and music, and whipped up a feast without a fuss. Meanwhile, I scampered around – maniacally trying to get everything right – my face scrunched up, my forehead creased and my frown creeping into the flavors I was trying to find. My sauces boiled, crackled and shot angrily out of the pots while hers simmered warmly, blending in with her ease and moving with her music.
While she’d just buy something that she’d like, I’d spend hours researching all options and making sure I choose the best one with the highest value per unit of cost.
The funny thing? She’d get it right anyway.
I wonder if I’ve become a little performing monkey. It’s tough to entertain the thought of failure, even tougher to accept being average.
Average isn’t so bad perhaps? Sometimes, being real is better than getting it perfectly right, non? Sometimes, just being there is better than being the best…?