Imperfect conditions

Tonight I escaped for a walk with the baby, slipping out while hubby took a nap upstairs and the other girls watched That's So Raven or some other ungodly show that they've watched only 438 times before.

The late-afternoon thunderstorm left the air still warm but much less humid. I could actually go outside and breathe without sweating from the effort. Not too many of my neighbors joined me outdoors, however. Huddled in their air conditioned homes, I guess they failed to notice that the sweltering day had turned into quite the pleasant summer evening. Having just left an always noisy house, though, I rather enjoyed the quiet of the neighborhood. It freed my mind to absorb sights and random thoughts at will.

I fell more in love with my baby as I watched her initial delight in overhead oak leaves bobbing with the breeze quickly give way to heavy eyes and a bobbing head as she succumbed to the stroller's soporific sway. She likes being outside.

So do I.

But, as I age, I find I'm much more particular about what constitutes a "good" time to be outside. Not too cold, but not too hot, either. Not too wet, too muddy or too dusty. Not too humid or too windy. I can deal with a slight drizzle as long as the air is warm, but if the bugs are in my face, buzzing at my ear and snacking on my flesh, I'm outta there.

Perfect outdoor conditions don't happen everyday, but they happen enough to get me outside without too much protest...which I'm sure my kids are more than thankful for!

I pondered on this as I walked, and I realized that, just as I like to have perfect conditions in which to work, walk and play outside, so do I seek perfect conditions inside in which to write.

Quiet kids. Clean house. Chores completed.

Quite rare, actually.

And if I want to be a commercially successful writer (heck, even a personally successful writer!), I need to write-- on a regular basis-- in less than perfect conditions.

My kids have the time of their lives outside on sweltering summer days, ignoring the sweat poring into their eyes and the mosquitoes feasting on their flesh, because they know that the fun they can have despite imperfect conditions far outweighs staying comfortable but bored to tears inside.

I should learn from them.

Learn how to write and how to enjoy the process and the product, even when I write with dust on the tables and dishes not yet in the dishwasher. Learn how to answer the Mommy calls without losing all patience and all semblance of thought structure. Learn how to be both Mom and writer without sacrificing the joy of one for the rewards of the other.

Perfection is rare. Waiting for it means missing out on all those perfect moments that arise from the imperfect ones surrounding it. Were I to stay inside each time it rained, I'd never share rainbows with my children. And if I wait for the perfect house, I'll never share the gift of my words-- the gift of me-- with them either, however imperfect they may be.