Last night and this afternoon I read two children’s books, The Boxcar Children by Gertrude Chandler Warner and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler by E.L. Konigsburg (say that three times fast), both of which were delightful. I’m not sure how I missed them as a child. Perhaps this is the purpose of adulthood, catching up on things you missed before and–if you were a way-too serious and anal-retentive child like me–being delighted. Not that my childhood wasn’t oftentimes filled with magic. It was.

It was just alphabetized magic.

I’ve spoken before about being an extremely neat child, about my need both historically and presently to have things just so. I mean, it’s gotten better, but it’s still a thing. According to my family, it all started after our house burned down when I was four. “That’s when you began lining up your stuffed animals according to height,” my aunt says. I can only assume that I felt out of control, that being hyper-organized was my way of keeping the monsters under the bed.

It’s weird how habits that start when you’re a child can last into adulthood. Thirty-five years pass, and one day, maybe every day, you find yourself still being afraid of loss, still grasping for control. I remember shaking, crying when I was a child when I’d get new toys for my birthday and not have a place to put them. Everything has to go somewhere, I’d think while lying in bed. There’s just not enough space in my room. Now as an adult I’m living in that very same room, sleeping on that very same bed. And whereas a few childhood photos and keepsakes remain, everything I used to be so worried about have a proper place for is now gone, given away or sold at one of half a dozen yard sales. And yet I still worry about finding the perfect spot for all my material possessions. I still spend way too much time making sure that my books and knickknacks are sitting in the “right” place and that my clothes are arranged by color.

Pro tip: this process goes faster when all your shirts are blue or black.

I guess it bothers me that at times I still get twitchy when things aren’t just so. This evening I worked on framing two brooches and nearly went into fits because I couldn’t get either one of them perfectly centered. Or because I scratched one of the frames. Honestly, it doesn’t matter why. Having worked on creative projects before (including this blog), I mentally KNOW that nothing is ever perfect. There are always flaws. And whereas it remains my contention that it’s better to create imperfectly than to not create at all, I still experience a high degree of stress emotionally when creating. I think, What if it’s not good enough? It’s like there’s this belief that if I can exactly center my projects and perfectly align the pictures on my wall, everything else will perfectly align and–somehow–prevent bad things from happening. Prevent loss from happening. From happening again.

Of course, this is only a superstition. Caroline Myss says that all compulsive rituals (like the need to have everything perfect) is about the belief that you can hold your world in place. But you can’t. Fires don’t skip your house because your books are alphabetized. Tornados don’t pass you by because they see how organized your sock drawer is. (Mine, by the way, is pretty organized.) In short, monsters come out from under your bed whenever THEY want. They don’t as YOUR permission.

This sucks, I know.

So what, Marcus?

So we enjoy our lives and our possessions exactly the way they are right here, right now, or we don’t. We see the magic all around us, or we don’t.

In terms of things having to be perfect (even now I’m thinking about starting ALL OVER on this evening’s brooches or just throwing them away, like, fuck it, what’s the point?), it occurs to me that nothing in life is perfect (and the point is fun). I’ve spoken a lot lately about how everything falls apart, and this is what I mean. All creations are essentially like sandcastles on the beach. Only here for a moment before they’re washed away. No matter how beautiful they were, no matter how ugly or off-center. Along these lines, it also occurs to me that just as I find flaws in my projects, I find flaws in my friends and family. And yet I love them wholeheartedly. Indeed, their flaws make them lovable. So more and more I’m realizing that something doesn’t HAVE to be perfect in order to bring you joy.

Crooked pictures have a certain charm about them.