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Years ago, living in a Buddhist monastery that practiced Rinzai Zen as a semi-committed sort of Buddhist-artist-in-residence I had a moment of what could only be described as pure happiness. I was walking down the hill to the temple about to enter the zendo for our evening practice, the sun was setting, my companion was silent, and my shoulders were finally unhunched. This happiness struck me as ridiculous as I was sore, exhausted, and freaked out. They gonged you awake at 4:30 am, we had to eat things like rice with chopsticks and perform a food ballet with bowls, one bowl for each food, bowls washed at the table and rewrapped, all done at warp speed, wrapped in a linen square and the wooden clapper told you to scurry away even if you had barely eaten. We sat for a full day, a break every hour for walking meditation, sat late, sat with moonlight slashing the polished floor of the zendo into rectangles. I had polished that floor.

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I am no stranger to grief. But for those who believe in democracy, rule of law, compassion, and the truth, knowing that this many people in our country don’t, is daunting. I understand better why our schools are failing, our roads are pot-holed, why we are sliding backwards into the post-war fifties mentality of pull up the ladder, not in my neighborhood, women should behave, Black people and immigrants should shut up or leave. My mission remains to teach, to love, to show compassion and empathy and hope. Since we just moved, I am putting away various papers and found the book the students from a very wealthy and White school made for me after I covered a maternity leave. They said I had shown them how to be kind without condescension, how to laugh at and accept mistakes, how to ask yourself the hard questions about something you are reading or writing.

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I’m not a therapist and I don’t play one on TV, but I believe perfectionism in writing and life can cause pain and anxiety resulting in the avoidance of anything with the potential to fail. And, I would argue that anything worth doing has the potential to go wrong, the wheels fall off the bus, the wedding is cancelled, the publisher says no, the soufflé collapses, the world does not find you adorable, deserving, or brilliant. I have been fired, twice divorced, rejected, humiliated, and disappointed. When I was in therapy decades ago, describing my latest heartbreak and tragic failure, the therapist said, “You were disappointed.” This statement made me want to stand and stomp my feet on her Oriental carpet. I didn’t want to be disappointed.

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