Rough draft

I’m working hard on accepting all my flaws.  I see friends out there with what seem like perfect bodies, perfect careers…perfect partnerships, and I get down on myself. 

I look in the mirror and I say, “Meri, what the hell happened?”

But thankfully the epiphany came last night as I was applying night cream under my eyes…

I’m a rough draft.

I’m so hard on myself in every aspect of my life, and it seems to me that I’m expecting to one day look in the mirror and see the final draft.  I don’t think that at 40 years old one can achieve final draft status.

Final drafts are only achieved after years and years of edits, of starting over, of correcting, siting, creating new paragraphs, crossing out redundant sentences, adding content…years of trying.

I think my problem is that every day I wake up thinking I’ve started on that final draft, and every day I make mistakes and I get super frustrated with myself.  What I’m really doing is trying to bump up a bunch of drafts…endeavoring to skip to the end.

And life isn’t about skipping to the end.  Life is about creating new stories to share.  New, messy, scratched out stories with eraser shavings scattered about the surface.  Evidence that we tried, and failed, and tried again.

Life is all about moving things around and adjusting our own storyline.  The ending we’re hoping for today changes to new hopes tomorrow.  The quality of our stories are enriched as the years pass.

I don’t think it is possible to write the final draft today.  So why is it I get upset when I attempt and fail at the perfect story, or even more than that, the perfect character within the story?

My story is far from perfect.  But it is rich with edited text and epiphanies that are just for me.  My imperfections tell the fullness of my story…my beautiful, imperfect story that doesn’t fit neatly into any final draft guideline the world has come to expect. 

Moreover, my character development is in full swing.  I just need to let it happen, and not worry what will happen many chapters down the road.  I need to forgive myself for not being the svelte heroine I wish to be, but rather the rounder, more down to earth mother that I am.

I want to rise up from this scribbled up text and appreciate my rough draft.

I am not perfect.

That’s ok.  I’m not meant to be.

The final draft comes when we reach the end. 

And me?  I have just begun.