Baby, Bathwater

This is something I repeat to myself on occasions when I feel like packing it all in.

When the perfectionist in me suddenly decides that not only is everything unsalvageable and imperfect, but that we must immediately destroy it all (in case we ever get any bright ideas about trying again).

The perfectionist in me isn’t big on logic.

And when it kicks off like this, I calmly murmur “baby, bathwater” as I coax it down from the high place it’s climbed to, persuade it to drop the flamethrower, and gently lead it back into its pen.

I remind myself, in other words, not to throw away the good, the necessary, because of the inevitable (and sometimes, also necessary) bad. Continue reading


Looking Back

It is not a kind thing we do to ourselves – the pretense, or maybe sometimes sincere belief, that what has gone was better than what we have here, somehow.

The psychic distance we glean from the passage of time, and our own forgetting, lets us access the yesterdays without the nuance. Sometimes this is a mercy.

When I was younger, I was happier.
A year ago, things made sense.
I had it so good then, I didn’t even know.

These sorts of thoughts are almost cruel, in the haven they promise, hazy times-gone-by, keenly sweet like a childhood film that touched us; offering solace in a past that isn’t a place, in a thing that isn’t real.

Change is awful.  Continue reading