Musty memories

Things shift and I am not sitting on top of the world, or at least that is my perception, so I ask myself what caused the shift.

The answer seems to be a lack of perfection.

Mine.

It is the age old problem come back to haunt me.  Anything less than perfection and my world feels like an uphill walk in back country America.  Not your Norman Rockwell world or nostalgic scenes with warm fires and tables set with austere beauty, but more like James Agee's Alabaman tenant farmers.

There is an impending sense of dinginess, as though it is about to creep up and overtake me if I close my eyes for just a moment. 

I remember this happening as early as my second Christmas when I sneaked out of bed at nap time and dressed myself in an elegant little blue nightgown with matching robe and white bunny fur slippers.  I was desperate to be pretty, but no one was impressed.  They were upset that I had gotten out of bed.

My foibles were never encouraged, yet they persisted. 

Some people fight for perfection.  I struggle to let go of that need.