In central Indiana, the weather is perfect approximately four days each year.  On any one of these sunny days, Lafayette seems kinda like Santa Barbara, sans the Pacific Ocean. This was particularly true last weekend, when the temperate weather occurred while spring flowers were in bloom. These pleasant days offer a stark contrast to the 348 days of the Hoosier calendar when we complain it is too hot, too cold, too damp, too snowy or just too dreary.    

When I woke last Saturday to “Santa Barbara Weather,” I committed myself to my first run since my return from a challenging twelve-day trip to Morocco.  I wanted to get back into the swing of running.  I put on black shorts and a white tank top and headed out the door around 11 am.  As the 1980s pop tunes blared through my headphones, I actuated a pledge to practice self-care and engage in positive self-talk.

My running app—MapMyRun—had just informed me that I had completed one mile when the run turned south.  As I passed a stand selling barbeque chicken, I tripped. I may have been distracted by the site--and the yummy smells--of this Midwestern culinary custom occurring in my neighborhood.  Or, maybe, I was just tired, but, trip I did, and in a big way.

Maryclaire has been dead for four months, and my grief comes and goes in waves.  Day after day, as time moves ineluctably forward, I can no longer predict when and where I will find solace from or exacerbation of the emotions wrought by the loss of my longtime friend.  In one instance, as I posted in January, a normally tedious e-commerce pitch in my inbox from Ann Taylor, one announcing a shoe sale, spun me back in time, and the sight of sparkly silver flats—a pair that Maryclaire would have loved—made me weep. The truth is, I treasure these emotionally chaotic moments, whether I laugh or cry, because they allow me to be close to a friend I’ll never see again. 
 
One unexpected instance of deep emotional impact occurred when I read The History of Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia (1759) by Samuel Johnson.  This task  was accomplished for the Early Atlantic Reading Group at the university where I work. The only detail that I remembered about the author as I read his book is that he wrote the celebrated work within one week, and he did so as his mother lay dying in the next room. In fact, Johnson wrote Rasselas to pay for his mother’s funeral. Of course, I found myself questioning how the author’s emotional state affected the text. 
 
Rasselas is the name of a prince from Ethiopia—in this instance, a highly idealized and ahistoric kingdom—who lives in the fictive Happy Valley.  There, all his physical wants are tended.  However, he is restless and so escapes with the poet Imlac, his sister Nekayah, and her servant-cum-friend Pekuah.  They seek interactions with people and places in nearby Egypt that will allow them—an ultimately futile search—to understand contentment and cultivate a sense of well-being, which is their ultimate goal in life.         

"Progress, not perfection.”  If I go to—and I admit I rarely do these days—a 12 Step Meeting, I always wait for this line.  It is recited out loud, and I suspect I am not the only person who wants its healing words to wash over them.  The phrase offers its benediction, and I feel each time as if I had never heard “We seek progress not perfection.”
 
As I reflect on this phrase today, I wonder if I can live with myself as I am, without the negative comparisons to an idolized idea of whom I “really” want to be?  Can I forgive myself for not being the “Stepford Stacy” built up in my mind?  I don’t want to be a perfect bleached blond spaced out on valium in suburbia, as the term “Stepford” might suggest.  Instead, I use this metaphor as shorthand for the unachievable version of a romanticized self to which I constantly compare the real deal.  I worry that I can be more highly organized, more of a creative intellectual, a more hyper-efficient housekeeper, a better dresser, a more caring pet steward, a loving partner who gives emotionally without making demands (fuck that one, actually), and, especially, a much better friend.
 
The catalyst for this post is my desire to be a more consistent blogger.  I want to help readers embrace their vulnerabilities…and to raise money for a scholarship in Maryclaire’s honor at Sparhawk School.  My raging negative self-talk is rendering me vulnerable and anxious: I am failing in my goal, I note with dismay, of writing consistently and so, I continue, I am failing to honor my longtime friend so recently deceased. 
 
Alcoholism and eating disorders do not go away, and recovery is not a linear process.  And so, once again, I need to remind myself that I seek progress, not perfection. 
 
Sackcloth and ashes hang in my closet, a well-worn outfit that fits no matter how my eating disorder might affect my weight.  I could be in the midst of a long period of food deprivation--or coming off months of binge eating--but these clothes still seem to cover a seemingly chronic desire for penitence.  I want to put that outfit on today so as to manifest my remorse over not having blogged for six weeks.  My return from Santa Barbara was difficult, and the reentry into Lafayette life was bumpy at best.
 
Progress, not perfection, I remind myself, noting that I kept all my therapy appointments, even when I didn’t feel like it.  Progress not perfection, I repeat, and allow myself to feel a sense of accomplishment over the completion of a paper that I presented last week in Casablanca.  Progress not perfection, I say again, and allow images of the walk that I took with Mark and our dog Wulfie at the Celery Bog to flit through my mind.  Progress, not perfection, I allow, and come to the realization that maybe, just maybe, I needed to take a break from emotional purging for the last six weeks. 
 
And so, I cut myself some slack today and move on a wiser person.  But, I must admit that I am glad to be back posting on the blog!  That, my friend, is progress...