The good fairy at my cradle
gave me a couple of gifts for which I’m grateful. But the bad fairy did me a
terrible turn: she instilled in me the conviction that whatever skill I tried
to develop, especially the domestic arts, the result was never quite good enough.
Apparently, I am not alone. If
the messages from readers of my post
about house cleaning are any indication, swarms of bad fairies hover above the
cradles of baby girls, and a few baby boys, raining domestic performance
anxieties on their innocent heads.
Fortunately, one of you reminded me of the brilliant concept of “good
enough.” The term originated with Donald Winnicott, a child psychologist who
worried about parents (mostly mothers) tormented by the anxiety that they were
falling short of the parenting ideal. Children, Winnicott reminded them, did
not evolve to require perfect parents. What they need in order to thrive is
mostly reasonable, well-intentioned, usually kind, generally stable, “good
enough” mothers and fathers. What they
don’t need is parents driven to neurosis by the compulsion to be perfect.
In light of Winnicott, Saint
Benedict’s instruction to treat all utensils as if they were the vessels of the
altar can seem neurosis-provoking. I may be able to wipe one glass as if it
were a consecrated chalice, but a whole sinkful of dishes? Also in light of
Winnicott, my compulsion to dust every single book and the shelf behind it was in
fact counterproductive, since it led not to my having feelings of reverence
towards those yellowing tomes, but to my wanting to throw them into the flames.
If you’re like me, the
problem with never thinking that what you do is good enough is that, aside from
making you crazy, it paralyzes you. Weary of aiming for, but never achieving,
Martha Stewart-levels of domesticity, you may give up cleaning altogether and
live in squalor.
The danger is especially
critical for those of us who regularly take off our clothes in public—by which
I mean paint, write, dance, play the tuba, or engage in any of those vulnerable-making
practices known as THE ARTS. The road to the unwritten novel, the unpainted
canvas, and the undanced dance is paved with visions of perfection. On the
other hand, the road to any accomplishment is paved with that hard to achieve combination
of humility and self acceptance that allows the artist, the would-be domestic
goddess, and the parent to get something done.
As with everything else, it’s
a matter of balance (and alas, balance is so not my style). “Good enough” doesn’t
mean perfect, but it doesn’t mean sloppy, either. To me it means “good enough
for me,” for who I am, for the moderate gifts that the good fairy bestowed on
me at birth. And, as I oscillate on that endless tightrope between perfection and
slovenliness, “good enough” also means forgiving myself when I occasionally
(frequently) fall off.
