The Perfect Blog Post

How I’d love to write the perfect blog post this evening!

I’ve made a few starts and pressed delete.

Perfection is the 100% we associate with maths and the like but there’s never 100% when it comes to more artsy subjects because perceptions and personal preferences get in the way.

Of course, I headed off to look at a few famous quotes about perfection and the one that jumped out at me was this one from Sylvia Plath:

Perfection is terrible; it cannot have children.

In the midst of all this searching and thinking, I recalled one of many insights from my Big Bro who has always been like the oracle to me. He made this little speech when I was new to motherhood:

There’s no such thing as the perfect parent, the perfect child, the perfect teacher, the perfect pupil, the perfect person.

Thing is: I feel that he’s the perfect ‘Big Bro.’

Big Bro and Me

Stepping Out into the Blue

Sky Blue
Sky Blue

This is how the sky was when I went to the beach this afternoon ~ blue, blue, blue.

I feel I should nearly be apologising for posting such a plain photograph. Wouldn’t a bird, a cloud, a kite, tree tops, a steeple ~ almost anything have added to the picture?

Maybe they would but why do we need contrast all the time?  In ways there is a contrast here because this is January blue at a time when all the talk is about ‘January blues.’

Also, I have to say that ever since I read Oscar Wilde’s poem, The Ballad of Reading Gaol, I have never, ever taken a blue sky for granted:

I never saw a man who looked

With such a wistful eye

Upon that little tent of blue

Which prisoners call the sky …

Perhaps we are all prisoners of complexity in a world that offers so much in the way of simplicity?







The Place of Perfection

I was on the verge of writing a post yesterday saying that ‘Perfection has no place in the world of blogging,’ but the longing to feast my eyes upon the beauty of the sea and to seize a swim at dusk drew me away from the computer.

As I drove to the beach, I was thinking about perfection and the curse/blessing of perfectionism. I inherited a streak of perfectionism from my father but when it starts to get a firm grip on me, I think of my laid-back mother saying: ‘Don’t be such a mad perfectionist; it’ll drive you and the rest of us crazy. No one is perfect. Try your best but don’t panic if you can’t get to the end of the rainbow.’

Rainbows have a touch of perfection about them, I pondered, but they’re very fleeting. In fact, lots of aspects of nature are perfect and I thought of beautifully formed roses, tiny snowdrops, the full moon … but none of them remain perfect all the time.

As if to prove the fleetingness point, Garrarus Beach was looking totally different to any other time I have ever seen it. The sea was as calm and soothing as Mother’s words while the sky was ‘animated’ and ‘moody’ as Father would have said.

Garrarus Beach, Co. Waterford
Garrarus Beach, Co. Waterford

I swam in the silky, silvery water ~ eyes drawn out to the fishing boats which were highlighted on the faraway horizon. The soft wind dried me off in seconds and I was left with that magical glow and sense of freedom that only swimming in the winter can bring.

The sand was like a blank canvas and a stick of seaweed presented itself to the writer in me. The words that flowed with abandon and complete instinct were: Perfect Cleansing.

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