You’re not going to believe this. Or, maybe you will. Last week I threw two rotten pears in the trash. Again. Horrifying, wasteful, a beacon of my failure in pursuit of living a cleaner life.
We started cleaning together months ago, remember? And the very first thing we threw away was a pair of pears. Haven’t read it? How dare you. If you want the next couple of paragraphs to have more context, you can go back and refresh your memory on that first and fateful Trash Day (I’ll wait).
Up to speed? Perfect. I had once again purchased two pears from the grocery and joyfully awaited the moment they were ready to be eaten. That perfect ripeness that would convince me that candy is a lie and fresh fruit is god’s gift to man (woman!). But I did not enjoy them. Instead, they slowly rotted away in a bowl on my kitchen counter. Avocados and limes came and went but the pears remained. I forgot they existed.
Like I said in my first edition of this series, this is not a commentary on wastefulness. It was a waste, I’m aware. Beyond the obvious, it represented personal failure in a seemingly public way. Sure, it’s only public because I am making it so, but I feel a sense of guilt, even responsibility, to show the other side of cleaning out the junk in my life: the side where I didn’t learn from my own realizations. I failed, once again, at understanding the limits of time and opportunity.
I won’t pull that whole conversation we had out of the garbage, you know where to find it. I want to throw away the expectation of perfection I put on myself. Perfection even in terms of my shortcomings (and there are many, believe me). We all have those moments in life when you do your absolute best and it still isn’t enough. That could be in a relationship or work or (in my case) a personal mission to be a healthier version of myself. To be full of good intention and fall short on action is a necessary step in learning what it means to take that action.
When it comes to learning a lesson and then forgetting what you learned, I am a repeat offender. I shouted from the rooftops (my instagram story) that I had thrown away my fear of being judged or laughed at, but then I turned around and I let the pears rot. And guess what? I still am afraid of being judged and laughed at. I still have 4 people proofread Trash Day before I put it online, because I would rather look stupid on a small scale than on a slightly larger one.
Someone once told me that growth is like a journey up a mountain. A spiral moving upward toward where you want to go. You come back to the same side of the mountain over and over but everytime you’re a little bit higher up. I find myself making the same mistakes or falling into the same old patterns of thinking, but I catch it earlier or I shift directions faster.
Maybe the pears are a bad example of this. Maybe there isn’t a perfect example for what I’m trying to articulate. When I threw them into the trash I beat myself up about it. My head was full of, “Really Bridge, again?” and “Did you learn nothing from last time?” That’s what I’m stuck on.
Where’s the grace?
So while I have thrown away multiple pairs of pears (3 sets, actually) what I’m tossing out on this Trash Day is the standard of perfection I hold myself to on my quest to be a better human.
I am going to fail. I’m going to work really, really hard to be better and I am going to fall short. But if I‘m not convinced that the end goal is achievable, why would I even try? That’s the danger with failure. It feeds into the lie that success is impossible. I have to decide here and now that a version of Bridget exists that does not seek the approval of others and is confident without conditions. I choose to believe that I will know her and that all the bumps along the way are detours not derails. Not to pursue perfection (impossible) but to keep growing in the right direction.
Throwing away the pears (the first, second, and third time) gives me the gift of practicing grace. I’m thankful I get the chance to mess up and try again. I hope I also extend that same grace to you. To my friends and my family. I have the honor of believing in your potential. I’m sorry if I have ever failed to give you that grace. I think that’s something I need to practice, too.
Don’t be afraid to keep throwing out the same thing over and over and over until it stays in the garbage. The trash gets picked up every week.
Your Trashiest Friend,
B
