The painting that currently hangs in our living room, above the mail and the keys, is an unfinished watercolor that I found rolled up and buried deep in the basement of an estate sale. It had no frame and no name. It cost me about 25 cents. There were other paintings and sketches in the pile but I chose this one.
The unfinished one.
I took it home and framed it, roughly. No glass, just a piece of painted paper pressed into a vintage frame.
I like that it’s both beautiful and imperfect.
Off balance and messy.
A little undone.
Exactly like life.
Exactly like me…
I’ll be honest though. I’m in a season of transition these days that is making the unfinished parts of me seem very, very bothersome.
No, scratch that. It’s making them seem downright dangerous.
I lie awake thinking that way too much is at stake for me to not have my feelings/weaknesses/struggles/brokenness/act all figured out, wrapped up, cleaned up, and under control.
I tell myself that there is no room for mistakes right now.
No space for messiness.
My mind races, searching for any possible way to fast-forward this life/growth thing. I want to either instantly eradicate or immediately transform all of my inconvenient parts. I begin to fear that unless I do so—and quickly—there is no way I will be able to shepherd R-kids and myself through this season in one piece.
I want to be finished.
But, then
I talk to a friend,
a mentor,
a therapist,
and I’m reminded that this is
how it is.
We are all undone.
All we can do is keep doing what is still left to be done and, hopefully, have a little patience with the process.
Sure, we can wish to be something we aren’t (yet),
—which at the moment is exactly what I would prefer!!—
but,
then again,
where’s the beauty in that?
xo
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