So...what does practice make...?

Recently, my aunt and uncle came to visit.  My uncle has been a psychiatrist for upwards of 20 years, and, eventually, the conversation drifted toward--what else?--Myers-Briggs personality types.  A few moments after discovering that I am an INFJ, my uncle posed a question to me.  "So," he began with a fleeting smile, "I'm sure you don't succumb to one of the INFJ's greatest weaknesses: obsessive perfectionism.  Or do you...?"

I can't remember exactly how I responded, but I'm sure it went something like this: laugh, shrug, give a brief (and ambivalent) reply, and wait for the moment to pass.  And it did.

A few days later, though, I was discussing my writing with someone.  When I apologized for not having any completed pieces of work to share, I received the following response: "No, that's okay!  I know for you that 'completed' is often synonymous with 'perfect.'"

Hmmm...I'm beginning to see a bit of a trend here...

I guess--for better or for worse--I've always been somewhat of a perfectionist.  I can assure you that before I post this blog entry, I will proofread it at least once to weed out any grammatical errors/stylistic issues (Also, I just spent the past 30 seconds looking up the word "proofread" to ensure that it is, in fact, one word and not two...  Uh oh.  Perhaps this is problem is more serious than I had thought...).  I guess that's why I enjoy editing things for people...

With my writing in general, I tend to sit and ponder the best possible sentence structure, and I will often read sentences aloud (but only when I'm alone...if...that makes it any less...deranged...) to determine if they flow smoothly enough.  I frequently reread my writing and change certain words and phrases...only to change them back again moments later.  For this reason, I rarely read over my writing once I've dubbed it "finished"...because, inevitably, I'll be dissatisfied, and I'll want to rewrite everything...

Similarly, I have a sketchbook of drawings that I'll never finish.  Typically, I draw until a certain point, and, then, I find that I can't continue...because I just want to go back and "fix" certain details over and over...and over...and over again.  And where's the fun in that?  Artistic things can easily become a chore for me...because I can so rarely make them "just right."  And if I do force myself to finish them, I can almost guarantee that I'll always regard them with a hint of disappointment: "Ugh.  Look at all the flaws..."

Well, now that I've shared with you a few of my more disgusting tendencies, let me say that this latent (or...perhaps...overt) perfectionism isn't always a bad thing.  It certainly gives me that extra push when I'm working on something (especially when it's sometime around 4 a.m.)--that unrelenting drive to avoid just giving up and saying, "Who cares?  I guess that's good enough."  And, hey, if I ever do manage to meet my unbelievably high standards for my work, I can tell you right now that that is an amazing feeling!

At its core, this obsessive perfectionism probably isn't the best thing in the world...but I know that there's at least some part of me that enjoys it.  There's just something fulfilling (oddly enough) about having an unattainable goal...and knowing that I won't let myself rest until I've at least come close to it.  (So...maybe it's sort of a masochistic, obsessive perfectionism...but that's another issue for another day, I think.)  I mean, if I really hated being a perfectionist, I'm sure I could change it (or...at least that's what I'll tell myself for now).

So, I guess this is the point in the blog entry where I make some sort of resolution to dispell a small portion of this issue.  I mean, I suppose I could start by promising that I won't go back and proofread this blog entry...at the very least!  But, then again, we all know that that just wouldn't be true.

Hello, my name is Andrew Hart, and I'm a perfectionist.

Twilight

Well, I really wasn't sure if I would ever find myself back on this website, typing my thoughts into this little, white text box. I can't say I'm certain, even now, what drew me back here... I think maybe it's the idea that blogging allows me to write--to record my thoughts and expend some creativity--without feeling the pressure or the need to actually accomplish anything. I guess it's glorified journaling, really.

Blogging has always presented an interesting dilemma for me, though...because unlike journaling, blogging allows other people to read me thoughts. I'm not simply rambling off things in a little book for the sole purpose of clearing my mind. I'm sharing. I'm opening up a part of myself. And, being the fairly reserved person that I am, that's not always the most appealing idea to me.

So, of course, this becomes a problem. I'm reluctant to make these entries overly personal...but I feel like there's very little point in blogging at all if I'm going to hold back all of my thoughts and feelings about things. So, I constantly find myself at the junction of "this is too personal for me to post online" and "this is so impersonal that it wasn't even worth writing."

I guess the real issue, though, is that I'm so concerned with what I might be revealing about myself in these blog entries that I lose focus on why I'm even writing at all. Instead of using this blog as a means of catharsis, I often find it to be draining because I'm so determined to be insightful and witty without ever actually letting my guard down. So, then, "no pressure" writing quickly transforms into "maximum pressure" writing...and, frankly, that's no fun.

The funny part, though (and I use the word "funny" very loosely here), is that I'm not really sure what I'm so determined to conceal. I can never pinpoint why I've built so many walls or what exactly they're protecting. I mean, I suppose you can chalk it up to my personality traits--I'm an introvert, always and forever--but there's more to it than that. Trust issues? Maybe. But I suppose that's a whole new set of problems for a future entry...

Either way, I'm vowing in this entry that blogging for me will no longer be a struggle. I'm not going to create deadlines for myself, I'm not going to strive for some unattainable degree of insight in each entry, and I'm not going to fret over whether I've said too much...or too little for that matter.

The real reason I bother to write down my thoughts at all--whether it be in a journal or on a website--is just to understand myself better. Maybe there isn't a wonderful transition between each different idea, maybe I'm not saying anything new, and maybe very little of this makes sense--or interests you--at all.

But that's okay.

So, essentially, you've been warned. I don't have any idea what I'll be writing here in the future...or how often I'll even be posting an entry...but I feel much better about it already. And that's what really counts, right?

Was a long and dark December
From the rooftops, I remember
There was snow, white snow.

Clearly, I remember
From the windows, they were watching
While we froze down below.

Hope on a Rope

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

It’s so easy to lose faith in things. If there’s one thing I can say that I’ve learned countless times over the past few years, it’s that things fall apart. Things fall apart when you least expect it and when you’re the most vulnerable. Somehow, I always manage to be surprised when life displays its alarming tendency to prey on any frailty I leave exposed. Then, of course, my natural instinct is to mutely withdraw from everything around me—to detach myself and heal my wounds in private…on my own.

But that’s not the answer, is it? It’s hard for me to see sometimes—especially when my path starts to get rocky—but I’ve realized that I can always, always take joy in God’s love for me and in all of the blessings He has given me.

Sure, sometimes, life sucks beyond the telling of it. That’s the nature of our world: things fall apart. Everything falls apart—except God’s love for us. That’s one thing—in a world of uncertainties and hardships—that will always remain constant.

I’m not trying to sound preachy, so I’m sorry if it’s coming off that way. I’ve just realized how often I fall into the trap of saying, “Well, God, I’m having all of these problems right now, and I just need to deal with everything before I can devote more time to You.” Talk about a skewed perspective.

Recently, I remember stumbling upon this quote: “You don’t drown by falling in the river; you drown by staying there.” Eh, marginally clever at least, don’t you think? So often, I let my problems consume me, and I allow myself to dwell on negative things. I chastise myself for my shortcomings instead of simply recovering—recovering by getting out of “the river.” But come on. Have you ever tried swimming your way out of raging river…full of crocodiles…and…sharks? Okay, well…maybe most rivers don’t have those things…and I suppose I’ve never actually tried that myself…but I assume that it’s probably not up very high on the list of “Most Fun Things to Do.” And it’s probably not very easy, either.

Lately, I’ve realized that the only way to get out—to really be free—is to grab the life preserver (and…the crocodile/shark repellent, I suppose) that God is constantly throwing to me. No matter how hard I try, I’m not going to be able to save myself; without God, I’m going to drown.

Fortunately, though, even when I thrash around in vain and try to rely on myself, God will always be there. In the end, as long as I trust in Him, I’ll be saved.

So, maybe the whole “life preserver” analogy was cheesy or cliché…but that’s alright with me. It keeps me afloat (ha), and that’s really what I need in life.

And, so, yes, I’ve realized that life certainly isn’t the tale of perfection that I often imagine—but, with that said, I know I have so many things for which to be grateful—friends and family, especially. God has given me so many blessings, and, as long as I don’t lose sight of that, things will always be okay. My faith in Him allows me to always trust, always hope, always persevere.

God’s love gives me the strength I need to endure.

Slippery When Wet

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to just feel nothing—not physically (but I think you gathered that already), but emotionally. It’s always seen as such a negative trait: cold, heartless, unfeeling. I’m not saying that any of those things are positive by any means, but, sometimes, I think I just need to be more rational.

In one of my classes, we recently took a “StrengthFinder (2.0!)” test, and one of my strongest traits was empathy. I wasn’t surprised by this, really, but I was a little confused about how they defined the term. They seemed to say that being empathic is merely understanding others’ emotions, but not necessarily feeling them. Empathy implies a certain amount of detachment that I’m not sure I’ve mastered. Apparently, to actually feel the emotions is sympathy. So, perhaps I’m more sympathic than empathic (But, then again, “sympathic” isn’t even a real word…and “sympathetic” just doesn’t seem to create the parallelism I had so fervently desired here. Perhaps that means it’s time to move on…).

When I’m completely honest with myself, I know I never would want to lose my sense of em(sym?)pathy. It’s definitely a large part of who I am, and I can’t imagine life without it. All other things aside, I know my writing would suffer tremendously if I were constantly detached from the world around me. I write best when I’m feeling—good or bad (usually bad, actually). Without these feelings, I imagine my writing would look a little something like this:
Mary was sad, and her tears fell to the ground at a velocity of 2 m/s (Yes, Mary has alarmingly fast tears).

So, at least I can take comfort in that, right? Besides, I highly doubt the above sentence would fit very well in any sort of literature…except maybe a physics book. And even that’s a stretch.

I guess my main problem is that I’m just hurt too easily and too deeply—even by trivial things. I overanalyze, and I punish myself for things that I really can’t control. And, then, the negative feelings just fester until I manage to push them aside (to be kept for later use, no doubt).

One good thing I’ve discovered is that I’ve learned to heal myself quickly. No matter how horrible I feel, I can usually pick myself back up again before too long. Even now, I can feel myself bouncing back…like one of those obnoxious little “whack-a-mole” creatures after you’ve clubbed it over the head 50 times, and it simply refuses to die. Okay…maybe not quite like that.

So, what have we learned today? Hmmm…nothing substantial, it seems. I guess our lesson for today—as evidenced by my little writing sample in the third paragraph—is merely that life is more complicated than physics (Note: This may not be true for “Physics 3”…but I will never know for sure because I will never take such a nightmarish class).
And…that’s a wrap.

A Looking Glass

“My father always used to say, you know…‘mind the gap.’”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s just the distance between life as you dream it...and…life as it is.”

Let me just begin this blog entry by stating that I should not be writing this right now. I woke up this morning with the full intention of reading countless pages of my Spec Mind book…but, hey, I’m already over a week behind on that. What’s one more day, really? Also, I have a French quiz tomorrow…but this is vastly more important than simple French phonetics, I’m sure. Ha.

Alright. Now that I’ve shed my guilt about shirking various responsibilities, I suppose I can truly begin.

I’m certain I’ve written before about optimism and pessimism, along with their corresponding advantages and disadvantages. (If you don’t believe, check the dreaded blog archive…or, worse yet, wander over to my old MySpace blog.) I’m also certain I never came to a firm conclusion on the matter. Is it best to be boundlessly optimistic and risk disillusionment from a harsh reality, or should we exhibit a guarded pessimism, giving reality a chance to outshine our initial expectations? It’s a matter of personal preference, I suppose…but, recently, I’ve given the subject a little more thought.

As you might recall from previous entries (and also from actually knowing me on a personal level), I’m an optimist at heart. Oftentimes, I display a certain amount of cynicism on the outside, but, inwardly, I expect the best in every situation. I’m an idealist through and through.

For example, I completed an internship in the public relations department at Light of Life Rescue Mission this past summer. When school let out in mid-May, I had a very distinct vision of my job: I would spend the summer using my writing skills to benefit the organization, and I would constantly be busy with new assignments—creating brochures, taking pictures, interviewing clients, writing press releases—which would make the time pass very quickly. I would truly be helping people, and my overall experience would be extremely rewarding.

Poor, naïve Andrew. My experience was…not that…at all. Not only was I very rarely “busy,” but to say that the time passed slowly would be like saying that a gunshot to the face “stings a little.” Not exactly what I envisioned, needless to say.

Now, before I go on a rant about how Light of Life stocks “rotating knife machines” in their kitchen (No lie; I took inventory for about a week, and I found many horrifying contraptions), let me try to make my point. Certainly, my experience was nothing like I had expected; I wasn’t running around, creating publications left and right, holding photo shoots, or even interacting with the clients very much. It wasn’t the “dream job” I had imagined from the get-go. In fact, it was rather awful.

Sometimes, though, I wonder if I simply drifted into the “this sucks” mindset too quickly. I wonder if my experience was somehow lessened by the fact that my lofty expectations hadn’t been met.

Now, perhaps my internship at LOL (ha) isn’t the best example…but I think you see what I’m trying to say, anyway (unless I’ve been even less coherent than usual). I set expectations all the time—we all do, I’m sure. We expect certain things each day and each night—during classes, when we’re with our friends, and even at meals (but I wouldn’t set your expectations too high if you’re dining in Hicks Cafeteria).

So, we’re back to square one, aren’t we? We set expectations, and we’re disappointed if they aren’t fulfilled. But the problem, really, might not be the expectations themselves. Lately, I’ve been trying to tell myself that—even if everything doesn’t go exactly how I imagined—things are probably just fine. More than fine, actually. Things are probably great, and I just fail to realize it sometimes because I’m so focused on what might have been.

Again, it’s a simple concept, and I’m astonished that it always takes me so long to work these things out. So, maybe I didn’t get the highest grade possible on my exam, and maybe I’m not feeling 100% well, and maybe my day wasn’t quite as magnificent as I dreamt it would be…but things are still—more than likely—pretty great.

So, what’s my conclusion? Things are pretty great. Period.

Thanks. That’s all.

Return to Sender

Downtown, in certain areas of Pittsburgh (and possibly elsewhere, I suspect), there exists a powerful entity, who I have dubbed “the rose man.” I have encountered the rose man on several occasions, and each experience has been a bit more unnerving than the last. Usually, our meetings go a little something like this: I am walking down the street with my sister, and the rose man materializes a few feet away, clutching an armful of roses.

“A pretty flower for a pretty lady? It’s free,” he croons, beckoning me to take one of his precious roses to give to my sister.

Typically, at this point, I notice the sinister glint in his eye and simply decline his cunning offer. It’s much safer this way; however, on one fateful occasion, I decided to accept his “gift.” I mean, it was a free ROSE, people. I’m sure my sister was just dying to have one. And, really, what harm could it do? (Ha. I was once a fool.) Squealing with glee (well…perhaps not squealing, per se…but you get the point), the rose man placed a bright red rose in my hand and told me how beautiful my sister was and how she deserved an equally beautiful rose (of course, by now, my sister--being the more intelligent of the Hart children--had already ducked into a nearby bookstore). I’m fairly certain that I chuckled nervously at this point and started to move in the opposite direction, mumbling my thanks, when he placed an arm around my shoulder.

“Now, how about donating some money to _________ organization?” he rasped in my ear. Sadly, upon hearing that I was, in fact, a poor college student who had no cash, he plucked the rose out of my hands, snarling something about how nothing’s really free and how, if my sister really meant a lot to me, I would have coughed up some money.

A pleasant experience overall, I’d say.

Now, I didn’t disclose the tale of the rose man merely to warn you never to accept flowers—or candy, for that matter—from strangers (although…come to think of it, that’s probably a decent lesson to learn, as well). I was just pondering the complexities of life (or something similarly vague), and I realized how rarely we give without expecting anything in return.

Please understand; I’m not saying that the world would be a better place if hundreds of rose men peppered the streets, hurling flowers at everyone just for the joy of giving. That…would actually be immensely frightening, I think. But it occurred to me (and I’m sure many of you have already thought about this before) how easy it is to simply give, but how difficult it is to give without receiving any sort of praise or reward in return. I’ll admit that, even while I might believe that I’m giving selflessly, I still often expect some sort of acknowledgement for my efforts—even if it’s just a simple “thank you.” Is that inherently bad? Probably not… I mean, it’s nice to be appreciated, certainly. But that’s not the point of giving.

So, what’s the solution? I’ve often thought about how much better it would be to give anonymously—to do something kind for a friend without letting him or her know that I was even involved in the act. In essence, this would benefit the person just the same, without allowing any unnecessary praise for me…because, really, it’s God who should be glorified for our acts of kindness—not us. And that’s what really needs to shine through in my life, I think.

I guess the whole “giving anonymously” isn’t practical in every situation. I mean, I’m not going to buy a birthday present for someone and then leave it on his or her doorstep, unsigned…encouraging him or her to think that I forgot about his or her (note: I am thoroughly SICK of this singular pronoun agreement...) birthday entirely. Nor would it be possible to, say, help someone with his or her homework anonymously (unless you left a series of post-it notes all over his or her desk, detailing how to complete the assignment…but…somehow, I doubt that that would be very highly appreciated) or hold the door for someone anonymously… Still, it’s a challenging thought—difficult to put into practice. It’s something that I want to work on.

Well, I'm sorry that this post has been bogged down with so many disjointed thoughts...and no real conclusion. I think I’m still getting back into gear with the whole “blog every week” thing. Oh well. Just beware: the next time I hold a door for you, I might flee the scene before you can see me, thus…allowing the door to swing shut…in your face. Giving…anonymously…right? Hmmm…I suppose I need to work out that plan a little better, don’t I?

Anyway, thanks for reading!

Daylight

Lately, I'm alright.

And, lately, I'm not scared...

So, it's been an eternity since my last post. I know. I've been meaning to write something for a while, actually, but I just haven't had anything insightful to say. My thoughts have been muddled lately, and I suppose my writing has suffered as a result.

Anyway, today, I decided that enough was enough. I’ve been throwing around some ideas for a new short story, but I thought that blogging would be a bit easier for now. So, I sat down a little while ago, determined to write a new entry. I wanted to expound upon some deep, psychological issue--something dark, something complex, something different. Nothing came to mind. Longing for some sort of inspiration, I moved into the living room and gazed out the window for a while. I didn’t see anything particularly interesting or thought-provoking, save for a monstrous child in a snowsuit chasing his little brother around the yard. I thought about informing the local authorities, but, soon enough, the kids had disappeared around the back of their house, so I assumed I was too late to prevent any real damage, anyway.

After a few more minutes, I gave up and decided to empty the dishwasher, instead. That’s when everything just kind of clicked. I don’t know how to explain it, really, but perhaps you know what I mean, nonetheless. I was just kind of struck by how good life can be—by how many blessings I have. The timing of this little epiphany didn’t make a whole lot of sense… I mean, it’s not like emptying the dishwasher brought me any sort of great joy or that I saw a particularly shiny dish that brightened my day. Nothing had changed, really, except my outlook.

So, yes, this is going to be another sunny, “don’t get mad, get glad!” (err…that’s something else entirely, isn’t it?) entry. If you’ve had just about enough of those, then I suppose this is where you should stop reading.

It’s not that life isn’t bleak sometimes…or…even most of the time. Perhaps the amount of bad news even greatly surpasses the amount of good. But I’ve noticed just how powerful good things can be—even if (or perhaps especially if) they’re surrounded by the worst problems imaginable.

I’ll insert an unnecessary (and overly simplified) anecdote here to illustrate my point.

Long ago, when I was a child, I went into work with my mom. While she was busying herself with things around the office, I decided to explore the kitchen in the back of the building. I found a number of dirty dishes sitting by the sink, so I thought it would be appropriate to use the ancient, rusted dishwasher in order to tidy things up a bit. So, I loaded it up with dishes, squirted an entire bottle of detergent inside (wait…you mean that’s not what you’re supposed to do?), and pressed “START.” A few minutes passed (the calm before the storm, I suppose), and I was extremely pleased that I had been able to help out around the office. That’s when I heard an eerie rumbling coming from the dishwasher. Seconds later, bubbles began to erupt from all sides of the machine, and the rumbling turned into a sort of guttural shriek as the dishwasher slowly died in front of me. Meanwhile, the bubbles seemed to become sentient creatures that consumed everything in their paths. The kitchen had vanished, and all that remained was a soapy winter wonderland—not exactly what I had envisioned. At this point, my mom rushed into the kitchen (probably to verify for her co-workers whether or not the building was being bombed) and caught a glimpse of my handiwork. I’m fairly certain that she wasn’t pleased, and I’m fairly certain that I was punished; however, as we were cleaning up the soapy mess, my mom smiled at me and said, “Well, the kitchen needed a good cleaning, anyway.” And that’s all I remember. I don’t recall the harsh words or the whippings (kidding!) that undoubtedly followed because that one, little comment was enough to negate any ill feelings I had had.

So, maybe that story just illustrates the fact that I wasn’t the brightest youth in the world…but it’s just amazing to me how powerful something small—a simple smile from a friend or an encouraging e-mail, for example—can be. In the midst of so much darkness, the tiniest bit of joy can turn my entire day around. How incredible is that?

In short, I’ve concluded that my blog entries are becoming increasingly corny…but I don’t really mind. I need to let my inner optimist shine through more often, and I suppose this is a good place to do that. I doubt I’ve said anything that you haven’t heard before or that you haven’t thought of yourself…but, still, I’ve found that it’s nice to be reminded of these things.
So, that’s it, I suppose. Nothing overly complex or deep. I’ve just decided that I’m going to focus on the blessings in my life—even as I blow up dishwashers or clean up cat vomit or deal with the bleakness that life so often throws in our faces—because, at the end of the day, those blessings are what really matter.