You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
—Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”
I’m a perfectionist when it comes to being an artist. I don’t mention this with pride, as if I’m in a job interview where I say my biggest weakness is working too hard. Perfectionism isn’t something to brag about because it stifles. It kills good ideas and crushes creativity. More often than not, when it comes to writing, I stop before I begin, thinking no words will be good enough, wise enough, or worth remembering. And maybe they won’t be, but not trying at all would be worse than a lousy poem or a boring essay. You can learn from creative failures but can’t learn if you don’t try. I know those things are true, but I don’t always believe them.
Mary Oliver is one of my favorite poets. She writes about ordinary things in extraordinary ways, and I long to possess a fraction of her gift. I’d read the poem above multiple times, but there was one reading in particular when the words jumped off the page, took my hand, and shouted, “Pay attention to us this time.” I need to pay attention to them again, and maybe you do too.
You do not have to be good.
Most of the time, everything in me wants to scream in response, “Yes, I really do.” However, I find the older I get, the less I care about what things look like and the more I care about how things feel.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
My perfectionism wants to say, “But the knee-walking in the desert thing? That seems fair. I’ll do that.” Perfectionism means I ignore all the grace I’ve received and instead punish myself for not being enough. From all my years as a church-goer, I know that to repent means turning from something and going in another direction. Repentance often has a religious meaning, but wouldn’t it be powerful to take the word seriously regarding how we treat ourselves and our creativity?
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Nothing feels soft about my body when I listen to the voice of self-doubt. I carry stress in my neck and shoulders, and when I’m tense, those muscles tighten uncomfortably. My body doesn’t feel soft then because I’m on guard. We carry so much in our bodies and place unreasonable expectations upon them. Yet, there is such joy in relaxing into myself and feeling pride and satisfaction that I’ve done my best. Creativity isn’t just a mental thing. When I make something I love, I feel it in my body. Instead of my shoulders tensing up, I feel light and undefeated.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Perfectionism can be selfish because it directs my thoughts inward. All I think about is what I’m doing, what I’m making, what I feel, or what people think about me. A certain kind of despair results from self-isolation, but Oliver reminds us here that we’re not isolated at all. We’re all carrying some baggage, yet life goes on. It’s not just about me, but about us.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
I’m not an outdoorsy person, but I love the ocean. Its vastness captivates me each time I see it. The sea inspires awe. Sometimes I feel a similar sense of wonder when I encounter good art. Like the ocean, art can stop me in my tracks and remind me how powerful beauty can be.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus says, “Look at the birds. They don’t plant or harvest or store food in barns, for your heavenly Father feeds them. And aren’t you far more valuable to him than they are? Can all your worries add a single moment to your life?” Perfectionism is worry. It’s unsettledness that causes me to doubt my gifts, abilities, and calling. Yet, we can learn something from the birds in the air that do precisely what they’re supposed to do. There’s beauty in witnessing someone be exactly who they were created to be.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
A couple of months ago, I heard the writer Jess Walter say that he approaches writing like play. That was a game-changer for me. Perfectionism doesn’t like play, but creativity thrives from it. I might not ever achieve every writing goal I set, but I can play. I might not ever produce award-winning work, but I can play.
Oliver’s right; the world does offer itself to my imagination. I do not have to be good, but I have to show up. I do not have to walk on my knees through the desert, but I have to play. I have to try. I have a place. It’s time to get to work.
Andrea Is Reading 