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The Quest for Perfection in an Imperfect Life

I wrote most of this piece about seven years ago. Since then, in one form or another, it has been published many times over. My father, Harold J. Chadwick, felt it was one of my finest articles ever. This week—Thursday, Sept. 19, 2013—marks one year since he went to be with the Lord.I have rewritten portions of this. I dedicate this new version to my beloved dad, whom I miss more than I can say.

I have spent a great deal thinking about and discussing perfection—the quest for it and its possible attainment.

I will stand up right now (figuratively as I can’t type on my laptop while standing because my lap disappears) and say, “Hi. My name is Hollee Chadwick Jones, and I am a perfectionist.”

[Guy in the back of the room says, “Welcome Hollee!”]

That being said, I will also now admit that I am far from perfect in any way, shape, or form, ergo most of my life, I have been my biggest disappointment.

Years ago, and more recently, I realized what a hard row to hoe this is—this standard of perfection I have set for myself. Not that I was feeling sorry for myself at the difficulties I've encountered since my perfection quest was initiated in my teen years—no, I have no patience with woe is me conversations when I am the woe-er—I merely acknowledged to myself that those difficulties were of my own making and not the fault of any external force.

Nor have I set the same standard for others that I have set for myself, which, when you really get down to the nitty-gritty, means that I have set myself above others since perfection was obviously not possible for them … Wow! That thought just occurred to me. That is not good.

But I digress.

This need for perfection has, at times in my life, hindered my ability to start a task because I was afraid I would not be able to do it completely right. It has skewed my vision of myself to such a degree that I mentally pick myself apart whenever I look in the mirror—I literally do not see what I am told others see when they look at me. It has made me choose friends and companions that I felt were not perceptive enough to see my flaws, my defects, my “idiot”syncracies. Yes, that is a harsh statement, but there it is.

But in my mind this was logical—if I chose someone who was as smart as me, or as driven as me, or who had my same talents, then they would be able to see when I made a mistake. (Now please take that last sentence in the spirit it is intended, those of you who don’t know me. I do not dumb myself down—I know I am intelligent, ambitious, and have certain talents—I inherited all of those things and I won’t deny a single one. To do so is false modesty.)

My greatest fears in life are being wrong and being made to feel stupid. I don’t fear dying—I am a Christian, I don’t fear being alone—I don’t want to be alone, but I don’t fear it. 

Admittedly, I do fear clowns, mimes, and dolls; but that’s a whole ‘nother article.

To the depths of my soul, I fear I may make an error in judgment, in my work, in my life, and I fear that someone may find out some day that, for the most part, I have no clue what I am doing.

That last is entirely illogical, because I have spent my life learning everything I possibly can about what I do for a living, and yet, I have had no formal “schooling” in my craft. I have worked my way up or sideways through the ranks of the writing community for the past thirty-seven years—I have picked the brains of everyone that I admire as a writer and gleaned what I could from the fields of work I am pursuing or want to pursue.

So in some ways my need for perfection has forced me to put myself out there—to forgo my fear of having ‘Stupid’ stamped on my forehead—and asked those who do know how they do that voodoo they do so well. I would have much preferred to just stand next to them and osmosisized the knowledge from them (no, osmosisized is not a real word), but since that is not yet possible, I had to actually ask questions. Asking questions was me admitting to myself and the person questioned that I did not know something. That is and was very hard.

My need for perfection has also driven me to always do the very best I can at anything I undertake—although it has hindered me from being an undertake-er in some instances—that qualifies it as a Catch-22.

The question is: “What do I do? How do I accept less than perfection in myself?”

And this occurred to me: Is a sunset any less beautiful when you discover that the reason for the multi-colors is pollution? And which is more beautiful—the perfectly unblemished piece of pseudo-wood, or the knotty, nicked, and weathered wood that has a story to tell?

My mother continuously reminds me that a diamond—the most perfect of gemstones—is made from coal, which is decomposed vegetable matter.

A pearl—one of my particular favorites—is not, as commonly told—made from a grain of sand. A pearl is formed when something organic, most often a parasite, penetrates the shell of a mollusk and lodges within the soft inner body of the animal. The parasite encounters cells within the mollusk's mantle tissue known as epithelial cells, which grow into a sac, envelopes the intruder, and excretes a chemical substance of aragonite and calcite—or in the vernacular—yucky stuff. Actually, this is known as nacre or the composite of a pearl.

Gives one a different perspective on fine jewelry, no?

I don’t know how not to be hard on myself. I have no clue. But I have been told that there comes a time when good enough needs to be accepted. I am not to settle for only achieving good enough—that is a bar set too low for my personality and I am done with settling—however, as long as I can truthfully say that I have given my absolute best effort, then that is good enough.

I cannot be all things to all people, I cannot fill everyone’s needs, I cannot do everything myself—I have to ask for assistance, let go and allow someone else to help me (not ask for help and then do it all myself anyway), learn from my mistakes, learn from others who have already successfully done what I want or need to do, and accept that there may be times when I can’t do something. I need to learn when “No” is the perfect answer.

I need to look at my flaws and defects—the decomposed vegetable matter and parasites—as, perhaps, that which makes me unique. It is those very things that keep me from being a cookie-cutter human, a Stepford, which gives me depth and contrast, just as clouds enhance the perfection of a blue sky.

I will think on these things—remind myself of them when my perfection bug gets the best of me. That is the best I can do in this instance.

Someday, someone besides my God, my dear-departed father, my mother, and my children will tell me I am loved for who I am, flaws and all, without reservation, without modification, without an “except for …”

How perfect will that be?

10 Years of Weather History in 3 Minutes

Firstborn and Fearless

My oldest daughter, Sarah, will be turning 35, tomorrow—August 8, 2013.

It's hard for me to comprehend that she is that old—mostly because it makes me old enough to have a 35-year-old daughter.

And she has given me two of the best grandchildren for whom a grandmother can hope—Hannah Jean and Michael Rush.

Sarah, being the first child, had to put up with her mother’s, well, quirks, for lack of a better word. (idiot-syncrasies?)

Everything she touched and anyone who touched her had to be sterilized. It was so bad, that my sister-in-law, Sue Pierce (now Birkle), who was living with us in the townhouse in Montgomery, Ohio, had to move out because I was making her crazy.

Thank God I had my mother and my mother-in-law (Mary Carol Pierce, may she rest in peace) living close by to take my emergency phone calls.

Case in point, a call to my mother went something like this:

Me: “Sarah has just projectile vomited all over the kitchen!”

Ma: “Where is she now?”

“I have her secured to her changing table”

“On her back?”

“Yes.”

“What are you, nuts? She’ll choke if she vomits again!”

“Oh. My. God. I am a horrible mother!”

When Sarah was nine months old, I got pregnant with her sister, Amanda. When Amanda was two years old and Sarah barely four, we were shopping at Gold Circle in Tri-County Plaza in Cincinnati. Sarah thought it was a hoot to hide in the circular clothing displays and jump out at me.

At one point, Sarah stopped jumping out at me. I searched all of the clothing displays in the area, and was starting to freak out more than just a little.

Then, over the store loudspeaker, I hear this: “Will the mother of Sarah Kathryn Pierce please come to the Customer Service desk at the front of the store to claim her daughter?”

I am thankful my four-year old was savvy enough to find her way there, and was not snatched along the way. Thankful. Every. Day. Needless to say, although I AM saying it, I kept an eagle eye on that child from then on.

As she grew older, she posed more of a challenge, as the oldest child usually does. The oldest is the “practice child.” You work out all the kinks in your parenting style.

Thankfully, she has always had a marvelous sense of humor.

She’s shorter than my other two daughters are. Shorter than most people, I think. Amanda is about 5’9” and Samantha, my youngest, is even taller. I used to look at her when we were asked to stand up in church for prayer or a hymn and say, “Sarah, stand up!” even though she already was. It stopped being funny very quickly.

She also has one heck of a temper. Do NOT mess with her family. Sam, the youngest, had a fear of condiments when she was a child—especially catsup. If we went through a drive-thru and they put anything but pickles on Sam’s hamburger, Sarah would leap from the car and read the manager the riot act. (Sarah was a manager with McDonald’s for years and knew the drill.)

My favorite memory of Sarah, besides being present at the birth of both my grandchildren, is driving with her in her car when we lived in Columbus. All of a sudden, my car window rolled down.

Me: “Why’d you open my window?”

Sarah: “I didn’t!”

Then the window rolled halfway up.

Then it rolled down again. And it kept right on doing this until we got back to the house.

We got to laughing so hard at the haunted car window that we were in tears.

Then there was the time she went to the local do-it-yourself car wash and took our dachshund, Gretel, with her. Gretel stepped on the door-locking button while Sarah was washing the car. Sarah spent I don’t know how long trying to talk the dog into unlocking the door by stepping on the button again. I think she finally flagged down a cop.

Thirty-five years. Half a lifetime for some. My wish and prayer for Sarah on her birthday is this:

• Love God.

• Be you.

• Be happy.

• Love your children.

• Love your mother.

• And, if possible … become a millionaire so you can support me in my advancing years.

I love you with all my heart.

Happy Birthday, firstborn and fearless!

The Life of an Independent Contractor

Being an independent contractor—or freelancer—can be described in many ways. I choose to use the words of a writer much more famous than me to do so:

"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. …" (A Tale of Two Cities)

Charles Dickens could well have been describing the 37 years I've spent as an independent contractor.

One the one hand, I have had the freedom to work from home, to work while I travel, to work the hours I choose, and to do the work I enjoy.

On the other hand, I have had to work into the wee hours of the morning—three days straight at one time—in order to meet a deadline, work on vacation, work through holidays, work when I'm sick, and taken work I did not enjoy in order to pay my bills.

That said, I would not, at this juncture in my career as a freelance writer, editor, copyeditor, proofreader, ghostwriter, fixer of all things grammatical, choose any other way of life.

Well, maybe I would choose to work in the Florida Keys surrounded by six-toed cats, but in lieu of that, working from my home office is my idea of the best workplace environment.

Again, that said, the work has not always been sufficient to pay the bills, let alone appease any longing for luxury goods. In "the best of times", freelancing is feast or famine, and lately, it ain't been the best of times, Charlie.

The publishing world suffered a major setback, as did most every other business, in the economic downturn of the past few years. Newspapers have halted their presses. Publishing houses have closed their books. Magazines have folded. Not only has this affected who is willing to buy my work, or hire me for any editorial work, it has also let loose into the freelance pool a whole slew of displaced writers and editors, some willing to work for much less than I can afford to.

Nevertheless, my experience has served me well over the past 37 years. Experience still counts to many companies, or to the author who needs a tested and successful editor to polish their manuscript. Someone always has a story to tell, a thesis to write, a fact to check, or a website to fill with interesting and informative content.

The key is, and always has been, to 'pound the pavement' every single day, network like there's no tomorrow, study your craft, study someone else's craft, expand your knowledge, venture into new territory, and, when all else fails, sell a kidney.

And really, at the end of the day, I can still say, with Dickens:

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done. …"

A Memorial Day Letter to My Dad

Dear Dad,

It’s Memorial Day weekend and I have been thinking of you even more than I usually do, which is every single day anyway.

But this weekend, I want to thank you for your service in the Navy in World War II. You never talked about those days much, as other men do, but I have always been honored that I had a father who served. And I have always been thankful that you lived through it.

I wish you were here now. I wish that when I come to see you on Sunday, that it is not at the cemetery where you’re buried, but at your home, where I had the honor of living with you and Mom from 2008 to 2012, and helping you through your cancer treatments, mostly by doing the housework and yard work and laundry and other grunt duties, as you called them. I know that bothered you, as you shared with me in your last weeks with us—in your last days. I wish I could share everything that you shared with me before you spent your last days in the hospital and were not able to communicate anymore. I want you to know, I honored the commitment I made to you then, just as I will honor your commitment to the country, our family, and your life’s work this weekend and the rest of my life.

You were right, there is a price for our decisions, and you were right, that what you asked me to do for you would have a heavy cost attached to it. The fact that you felt that I had given enough, that I had given up enough, hurts me, because I can never repay you for what you have given me, the sacrifices you made for me, the encouragement you gave me.

We did not always see eye-to-eye throughout my life. You admitted that you were a hard man much of your life—one with high expectations of himself and of me—but in retrospect, as we spoke in those last hours of your ability to do so, and in the days and weeks prior, you did what was best for me. I would have given up so many times, and once did, but you dragged me kicking and screaming back into life.

And my life now is full, and yet empty. It is full of love for Mom, my wonderful husband, Jeff, my three daughters and grandchildren, my three step-children, my soon-to-be son-in-law, my sister, Kim, and her family, and my work. But you are not here. And to some, I am no longer a part of their family, of our family. So, in that, again, you were right. You said, “I’m asking you to be selfish. I’m telling you to put yourself first. Do this for me.”

And I did as you asked, Dad, but it is the hardest thing I have ever done. It has brought me joy, like you wanted, but it also has brought me unbearable pain. Unbearable, that is, were it not for Mom, my husband, and children.

But that is life. Like our life together—we fought hard, we worked hard together, we laughed uproariously, we wrote together, we did a lot of crying together, and we apologized to each other a lot…

I miss you, Dad. I wish you were here so we could work in the garden, so you could yell at me for hauling rocks for the front yard, so you could explain passive sentences and adverbs and adjectives to me like you did when I was little, so we could watch PBS Masterpiece with Mom, and all those horror and action movies Mom hated, so you could teach me to drive again, and then continue to do so For. The. Rest. Of. My. Life. (Stay 10 lengths from the car in front of you. Turn your signal on 50 yards before your turn. Why don’t you use two feet when you drive. Stop driving with one hand. Okay, you can back out now—no wait! Okay, go now. Why are you taking this route? Get in the right lane, no, the other right lane!)

I wish I could argue with you again, could storm away, and then come back and cry in your lap while you cried and stroked my hair.

I wish I could make you laugh again with my horrid impressions, and my commentary on movies, and my smart-mouthed retorts to something you said to me (that once would have mad you angry, but later made you laugh).

I wish, I wish, I wish…

So here’s to you, Dad. With the Father, look down upon me, bless me, and give me strength.

Thank you for every single thing, on this weekend, and every day of my life.

Hollee