I’m going out into left field today to do something I haven’t done before here on PMI. I’m reviewing an album.

I could try to force-fit it to the blog’s “overcoming perfectionism” theme by saying something like, “Look! It might not be 100% perfect in every possible way, but that didn’t stop the artist from releasing it anyway! Bravo!”

Except that I’d never write something so terribly cheesy. Aren’t you glad?

I’ve been a huge Peter Gabriel fan for a very long time. And if you know anything about how the man works musically, it’s a very collaborative process. For many years, one of his primary collaborators has been David Rhodes, known mainly as the band’s guitar player.

But to the discerning ear and long-time fan, David has always been much more than that. He has offered his strong vocals, mature musical sensibilities, deft technique, and thoughtful songwriting skills to Gabriel’s recording and touring operations for well over two decades now.

Bittersweet, David Rhodes’s first solo album (not to mention his current tour—more on that later), proves beyond a doubt that he can hold his own under the main spotlight as well.

Folks, this is a damn good album.

It starts quietly with “Reality Slips,” a deceptively gentle opener which showcases the raw clarity of David’s voice, a lovely surprise after hearing him in the background for so many years. The song gradually builds in drive and density, and just when you think the guitar is fading out at the end, it turns instead to a melodic, then searingly gritty solo. Now that’s the way to start an album.

Next is “Down by the River,” one of the sweetest-sounding songs about a certain rather depressing subject I’ve ever heard. Dominated by David’s very forward-in-the-mix vocals, the simplicity of the melody lets the listener become caught up in the flow (river pun absolutely intended) of the narrative.

“Just Two People” starts out with a guitar sound as fuzzy as a pair of dice tossed over the rearview mirror. The entire song is a great example of the way David uses his guitar like a paintbrush, knowing exactly where to stipple in some subtle sounds, where to lay down a straight melodic line, where to spread a rough wash of power, and—most importantly—how to blend all these effects into a harmonious whole.

“Crazy Jane” is sheer delight, from the gently chugging rhythm to its delicate melodic flourishes to the vivid character of Jane herself and the singer’s relationship with her. (“I want to see her again, I want to make daisy chains.”) This exquisite little gem would be my pick for a first single from the album.

My own favorite song (as of this writing) is the straight-ahead yet perfectly understated rocker, “All I Know.” Why? Two words—the grit and the groove. Mmmm!

Anyone remember album sides?

This is where I’d say that Side 2 begins if such a statement still had any meaning. Hah. Does that make me officially old now?

“If It Could Only Be That Easy” has a slip-slidy tempo that meshes with the plaintive vocals to create a wistful and evocative mood piece.

Then comes “Monster Monster,” which is, I’ve got to admit, my least favorite song on the album. Just my personal taste—it’s psychological self-exploration (which I like), cast into the metaphor of a children’s tale (which is what doesn’t really grab me). Musically speaking, though, it’s a fine song, with a slinky beat and some devilishly clever and alliterative lyrics.

The intro to “There’s a Fine Line” establishes an appealing, slightly off-kilter rhythm and kicks off a bouncy-sounding song addressed to someone who’s having a bit of a hard time with life. The poignant lyrics (“You don’t smile anymore, you don’t joke anymore, you look broken and sad”) and bright, up-tempo melody make for an interesting contrast. I adore the vocal harmonies in the chorus—they hit my nerves with the same kind of delicious pleasure/pain tingle of fingernails scraped gently down the back.

“One Touch”  is a smoldering, intense love (or maybe lust?) song, plain and simple. I love the way the tension builds during the restraint of the rhythmic guitar in the verses but finds its release during the chorus.

But I don’t have to tell you about this song—I can show you. The album version is much more fully fleshed out instrumentally, because here it’s just David and his guitar on stage (if you watch carefully, you’ll see that the “offstage” rhythm guitar is a part he records, then sets to loop in the background as he plays another part over it). But check out this video from the European leg of David’s tour earlier this year:

Bonus Video! One Touch

The album closes with its title track, “Bittersweet.” It’s an instant mood-changer (think the late-night languor of a piano lounge, but with much more intimacy), and its deeply introspective lyrics tenderly bring the album to a sense of emotional completion, right down to the final soft “wah” of the guitar.

David is currently opening for Cyndi Lauper on her “Memphis Blues” tour, and you can find the list of tour dates (and a great deal more about David, while you’re at it) at All Things David Rhodes.org. (Note that there is also a link from the news page to Cyndi Lauper’s official site, in case of any changes.)

Oh, and the album itself? I got my copy of Bittersweet through the German branch of Amazon, because it hadn’t yet been released in the U.S. You can preview (prelisten?) to snippets of each song there, too.

But the good news is that it has just been released on iTunes. It’s also available through Care Music, where you can also get the album art.

(Incidentally, none of these are affiliate links—I’m a fan, plain and simple.)

Bittersweet is a fantastic album that deserves as wide an audience as it can get. It’s a fresh solo debut made all the more wonderful by the fact that it’s from a seasoned musician with many solid years of song-crafting under his guitar strap.

That craft shows plainly, and it is a very fine thing to hear.

Hi. My name is Michelle, and I’m a control freak.

(Chorus: “Hi, Michelle.”)

If Control Freaks Anonymous existed, I would SO be a member.

So this post is as much a reminder to myself as a message to you.

I kind of have this long-standing beef with technology and so-called “progress.” It seems like there is just so much to keep up with these days, and it’s getting worse, not better.

Okay, so I do like modern-day conveniences like…oh, say electricity. And indoor plumbing. But I must confess that there are many, many days when I long for a simpler life, without all the cars and cell phones and fancy office equipment and high-tech gizmos and and and…

Because while they are all conveniences, too, they carry with them an underlying assumption which remains largely unquestioned in our collective mind—the assumption that we must use them, or we’re somehow less efficient, less in control.

We believe, without thinking much about it, that we must keep pace with our own technology.

However, the pace of technological change over the past 100 years in particular has been so exponential that our grandparents truly would not have believed what they saw if they’d been able, as children, to time-travel to today.

Biological change happens over the course of centuries and millennia. Our technology has so far outpaced our biology, it’s not even funny. Yet we just assume that we need to keep up with it all.

Why?

Because we see everyone else doing it.

What we often don’t see, though, is that most folks are feeling as desperate as we are, looking around at all the things that other (equally anxious) people accomplish in a day and taking it for granted  that they need to measure up, too.

It’s a frantic race in which each of us believes we’re the only one who doesn’t have it all together, so we allow ourselves to be drawn into sprints and long-distance events which are either illusory to begin with (you must bake the best cookies ever for your third-grader’s class party or you’re a failure as a mom), or real but not at all in line with our personal values (you’ve got to work a bunch of 60-hour weeks, be a stranger to your family, and prove your worth to your employer to get that promotion).

The irony is that by trying so hard to remain in control, we lose it.

Don’t you hate irony?

And the grand delusion is that there is a finish line to this race. So you just keep pushing, aiming for the day you can finally stop and relax, but meanwhile trying to control all the flailing octopus arms of your life while running at top speed.

Not a great way to keep your balance. Or your sanity.

Of course you want to feel in control. Nothing wrong with that—we all do. The tricky part, though, is deciding what you really want so that you can give up on the notion of having to manage everything else.

In a society that pushes us to “realize our full potential,” “be all that we can be,” and “live our dreams,” it takes conscious effort and real courage to choose the path of aiming for less.

I’m going to repeat that, because it’s so important.

It takes conscious effort and real courage to choose the path of aiming for less.

But aiming for less, and doing that as well as we can, is the real way to live the dream. To make a difference. To feel truly satisfied with what we accomplish.

We need to realize that by trying to meet someone else’s outer standards of accomplishment, we give up our control.

We begin to take it back when we decide what we want from our lives.

Whoo-hoo! It’s my first-ever guest post here on Practice Makes Imperfect!

My friend Cairene MacDonald of Third Hand Works sends out a periodic newsletter which I love receiving because she is a truly magnificent systemologist, and she thinks deeply about her subject matter so that every blog post and every newsletter is well worth reading and digesting slowly.

Cairene’s main article in last week’s newsletter was so on point for my readers, I asked if I could reproduce it in its entirety. She graciously agreed, so here it is . . . thanks, Cairene!

By the way, you can visit Cairene directly at her own website, where you can also sign up for her newsletter. Tell her I sent you.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about perfectionism lately and how I know I’ve been engaging in that instead of what I call refinement.

Refinement serves the work.

Refinement is that process of adding only what’s needed and removing everything that’s not. It’s about a certain precision. It’s about making smart choices about what one’s creation needs to do its job in the world.

And, when I’m really in flow, I don’t feel like I’m the one making those decisions. I feel like I’m just obeying my muse’s – very clear and insistent – directions about what this thing needs to be.

While the process of refinement may be challenging and leave me tired, it’s a good sort of exhaustion – like after a good workout.

When I am engaged in refinement, I can sense when I’ve gotten it to good enough and the work is ready to be shared.

This is usually accompanied by a sense of pride and excitement (with maybe just a few nerves on the side).

Perfectionism serves fear.

Maybe it needs something else? There’s probably a better word. Maybe people will like it more if I made this part blue. What if I move this to the left half an inch?

Fuss, fuss, fuss. Endlessly. Over details that don’t matter.

I’m not in flow. And I’m making decisions based not on what would make the work better, but what I imagine would make the specter of my most critical audience happy. Which seems like it’s about serving them, but it’s really about me and what I need – not what my audience needs and certainly not what the work needs.

Perfectionism is draining – and it’s the bad sort of exhaustion that doesn’t help me sleep more soundly.

When I am engaged in perfectionism, the work never feels finished. And the idea of sharing it makes me feel nauseous.

False standards keep us stuck.

I’m guessing we all agree that perfectionism is not a good thing.

But I think one of the things that makes us reluctant to let it go is our fear that we will somehow throw the baby out with the bath water. That if we set more realistic conditions of satisfaction we will somehow end up producing complete crap.

It doesn’t work that way. In fact, that all-or-nothing attitude is just the perfectionism at work again.

It’s not so much a matter of lowering one’s standards, rather shifting one’s focus. Remember, our standards define how we choose to be in the world and interact with others. You can’t set a standard for how people interact with you. You can set some boundaries, but you can’t make people like you.

All you have control over is the quality of the work. Focusing on those standards will serve you.

Eliminating false standards that, in the end, just support how you hope people will interact with you eliminates the huge waste of energy that is perfectionism – and that will serve you too.

Start noticing.

What are your efforts serving? Your work or your fears?
Begin paying attention to how you know the difference.

And when you tip into fear, help yourself find your way back to that space where you are creating from love for your work and its purpose in the world.

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Cairene MacDonald helps independent creative professionals learn how to improve the administration of their businesses, focusing on right-brain strategies so her clients can succeed and still be themselves.

In other words, she makes systemizing your business much more intuitive and enjoyable.

You can find her main website here and her delicious blog here.

As my last post reveals, I’ve been thinking a lot about simplicity lately, and how it’s been one of my longest-standing goals.

That’s right, it’s not just an idea for me, it’s a goal. Because my Inner Control Freak can’t just appreciate something without trying to own it somehow.

I try reasoning with her about this to no avail. She leads me over and over again to the same conclusion.

The fact that my life isn’t as simple as I’d like really stresses me out.

(Actually, what I initially wrote was, “I allow the fact that my life isn’t as simple as I’d like to stress me out. But what if—radical thought!—I just accepted this as the way I am right now? Not that I want to stay this way, mind you. But can this mental/emotional pattern be something I don’t judge myself for while I’m working on it?)

Anyway, as usual, my feelings of stress come from comparing the What-Is to the What-I-Want.

You see, in my mind, I have this image of how organized and uncluttered I want my life to feel. My home is comfortably lived in, but neat, and I can find whatever I need in seconds because I know exactly where it is.

Oh, yes! And (the fantasy continues) I’m also tracking all my commitments and things I want to do so that nothing ever slips through the cracks. I have time for everything. (Possibly the biggest fantasy of all.) I’m responsible, trustworthy, and stress-free.

And someday—maybe even this weekend, if I try hard enough!—I will finish everything on my to-do list.

The Empty Inbox Fantasy is a lie. I know that logically, dammit. But my Inner Control Freak wants so badly to believe it’s possible, she is willing to live in perpetual denial.

But externalizing her like that is misleading. I know she is really me. And I hate the fact that I can’t accept the world in all its entropic glory.

I’m trying to make peace with the fact that life is complex and messy.

Most days I’m failing. But every time I manage to relax into the knowledge, even for a moment, that the world isn’t neat and orderly and controllable and that’s okay . . . I’ve won a small victory. Maybe nudged a neuron or two into a more peaceful and accepting brain pathway.

Allison Nazarian wrote a fantastic post about this a few days ago, in which she oh-so-correctly observes that simplicity is hard work. I adore her idea that maybe “stew is the new simple.” Go read her post when you’re done here, because she conveys her ideas so beautifully, but here’s the heart of it for me:

Maybe simple is the big, juicy, colorful, sometimes-spicy, never-bland, gloppy and, yes, complicated stew that is my life. . . . Maybe the stew has so much potential for such deliciousness that it—not simple—is actually what I crave.

I am gradually (kicking and screaming all the while) coming to this conclusion, too. Because as much as I want the peace and calm that come from simplicity, when I manage to step out of judgment mode and simply see the world in all its suchness, I see that it is a very, very rich place.

Here’s another thought. Maybe being uncomfortable is simply being uncomfortable. Maybe it doesn’t necessarily mean my world is spinning out of control.

There is a dynamic tension between my wish for simplicity and my acceptance of complexity. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.

What if the connecting word between simplicity and “suchness” (everything in the world being exactly what it is, and no more) is not OR, but AND?

What if I could accept the fact that I will stress over my life’s complexity, and that I also will find much wonderfulness there to revel in?

Can I allow for that? I don’t know—I’m still working on it. I’ll keep you posted.

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, you’ve probably noticed something.

I am very drawn to the ideals of voluntary simplicity.

 This is one of my interests passions obsessions. I have an aesthetic sensibility that leans strongly toward minimalism, and the fact that this isn’t very apparent where I live causes me mental and emotional stress.

I’ve come to realize that’s just one more facet of my perfectionism.

Despite the fact that I own less than the average person (I share a rented apartment and basically live out of my bedroom), I still feel like I have too much stuff, and I’m always trying to whittle it down even more.

But I’ve got nothing on this guy.

I’m officially in awe of Jay Shafer and his 96-square-foot home.

Actually, he has since gotten married and had a child, so they’ve moved into a 500-square-foot home, with his little one pulled up next to it. Still pretty darn small, though, since the size of the average home in the U.S. was a little over 2,300 square feet as of 2004, according to the National Association of Home Builders.

Jay now creates plans and builds tiny houses for others through his Tumbleweed Tiny House Company, and says that the demand for them is growing. (In fact, his house is featured on Yahoo’s front page today, and the server is so busy I can’t even get through to the site now.)

On the face of it, these little homes look like the ultimate in simple living.

But that ignores what the foremost proponents of voluntary simplicity say. For example, the front page of The Simple Living Network tells us that “…simple living is not about poverty or self-inflicted deprivation. Rather, it is about living an examined life—one in which you determine what is important and enough for you, and discard the rest.”

I like that a lot.

Jay Shafer has examined his life and figured out that he can live in extremely tiny houses. Me? I’m kind of claustrophobic, and a house I could walk through in ten steps or less would drive me nuts. Even if I were to succeed at something like The 100 Things Challenge, I’d still need some physical breathing room around me.

And then there are my books. That’s the one area where I have trouble minimizing, because I do read them again and again. I’ve long since gotten rid of the ones I don’t—and even some of the ones I do. I just ended up buying those again.

I think those of us with overly self-controlling and perfectionistic tendencies need to be careful not to (*cough*) over-complicate voluntary simplicity. Or any other movement.

As I often like to say (apparently agreeing with Julia Child in the bargain), “Everything in moderation–including moderation.”

Because the one area where we really do need to be minimalistic is in our methods of self-flagellation. We’re too good at that already.

It’s far too easy for us to tell ourselves that we must meet some arbitrarily created “simplicity standard,” such as living in a wee little house or owning a certain number of things.

But simplicity and minimalism are really about finding your own answer to the question of what is enough for you.

I find that walking this line is a challenging balancing act. What about you? How do you determine what’s truly necessary in your life? Please share in the comments—I’m very interested in hearing your thoughts and experiences!

Once upon a time…

One day a knight and a Shaolin monk, coming from opposite directions, came upon a band of brigands accosting a frail, elderly couple on the road.

The knight, yelling in outrage, threw himself from his horse and onto the nearest of the brigands, slicing and stabbing with his sword. Blood spilled; the screams and moans of wounded and dying men were heard.

The monk calmly and smoothly unleashed a barrage of punches and kicks upon those nearest him until they backed away from the two elders, broke, and scattered.

Leaping back into the saddle, the knight called to the monk, “You see those two villagers safely home. I’ll chase down those ruffians to make certain they leave the vicinity!” The monk nodded and began to escort the shaken couple back to their village. The knight galloped after the fleeing brigands.

When he returned, the monk had already made a fire by the side of the road and was cooking a simple meal. He smiled and beckoned the knight to join him.

Red-faced and puffing, the knight clanked over to the fire and sank to the ground. He pulled off his helmet to reveal a knitted brow. His teeth were still clenched in anger, but he tried to stifle it for politeness’ sake.

“Those brigands are gone for good,” he said. “I chased them all the way into the next province. But—oh! Imagine them bothering a defenseless old couple like that. It made me furious to see!”

“I was very angry too,” admitted the monk.

“You? You seemed so calm and serene while fighting those vile bandits!”

The monk spooned food into two bowls and handed one to the knight. “No, my friend, I was extremely angry. So I allowed myself to feel the anger fully. It entered me, shook me like a tree in a fierce wind, and blew away. Once it was gone, I could clearly see the best place to begin my attack.”

*       *       *

When it comes to our emotions, most of us are far more like the knight than the monk.

When we see injustice, rather than remaining centered, we become righteously angry and take it out on the offenders, doing them harm. We rattle and clank around, huffing and puffing and tiring ourselves out with the weight of all that armor.

Or we see something which causes us fear, or grief, or frustration, and we attack it head-on, taking it as our enemy.

Now at this point you’re probably thinking you know what comes next—I’m going to say that the monk’s approach is correct. It’s better to coolly assess the situation and deal with it in the most efficient and least violent way possible, to avoid harming others whenever we can. Right?

Well, sure, but let’s face it. We’re only human, and most of us neither have nor want the training of a Shaolin monk. We’re going to get upset, and probably often.

The point I want to make isn’t so much about the violence we do to others, although that’s important.

It’s about the violence we do to ourselves.

I think that’s just as significant, and often far more insidious.

We think we’re helping ourselves when we try not to feel normal emotions like anger, fear and sadness, but we’re really hurting ourselves instead. We become hardened, calcified, walled off from a portion of our own lives. Armored.

No one enjoys experiencing negative emotions. But we sometimes forget that they come as part of that whole package deal of being human, and that there are very good ways of working with them.

Or we understand that these feelings exist, but that it’s not okay for us to feel them. We’re tough, we’re strong, we’re capable. We should be able to take negativity in stride and forge ahead tirelessly. After all, we have so much to do!

One way or the other, we try to suppress the emotions we don’t want to feel, or to acknowledge as part of ourselves.

We do this by distracting ourselves with endless activity. Work or play, we fill every spare minute with action so that nothing unsavory can wiggle through the gaps.

We do it by focusing primarily on others, burying ourselves in their joys and troubles instead of our own.

We do this by developing addictions that keep the unwanted pain at bay.

We are endlessly creative in finding ways to armor ourselves, like knights, against emotional distress.

But what happens if we remove the armor?

What happens when we allow ourselves to feel—really feel—our emotions fully?

It feels like vulnerability at first. Without armor, we can be hurt! We’re wide open!

But we’re also much more unencumbered and flexible. We can move easily, with greater subtlety and precision, like the monk. We have a lot more freedom to choose our responses.

We can also observe how emotions ebb and flow. We learn that if we let a painful emotion in, it won’t hang around forever. It has a natural rise and fall. We can let the wave of pain roll over us and pass by more quickly if we don’t construct walls against it.

So what does this mean for you, right now, today?

You can relax and cut yourself some slack.

It is completely understandable that you don’t want to feel negative emotions. No one does. Nobody wants to suffer.

But know that you don’t have to be perfectly strong and relentlessly positive all the time, either. You don’t always have to be the shining knight on the tall white stallion.

Above all, know that it’s not just you who shies away from internal discomfort. It’s a tendency we all have.

We’re all human. We’re all vulnerable, and scared of that.

We’re all in this together.

Warning:  This post gets a little heavy. It also doesn’t give any crisp, clear answers to anything. But I needed to churn up some of the stuff that’s been lying in the murkier depths of my mind, and I’m offering it here in case it’s helpful or sparks a good conversation. Which would be very nice. (Hint, hint, wink, grin.)

For the past few years I’ve focused on scaling back and simplifying my life. I had to. I was depressed, exhausted, and completely burned out.

Now I’ve got several things going on that I’m genuinely excited about. The challenge, for me, is moving forward without getting into that “all or nothing” headspace which has been my lifelong companion.

I make lists of everything I need and want to do. At first this feels great—it clears my head and lets me relax because I don’t have to worry about dropping any balls—it’s all there on paper where I can see it.

Then the lists undergo mitosis, sometimes often within seconds or minutes of being created. They subdivide from nice, clean rows of words into huge, unwieldy, overwhelming deposits of impossible.

I create and revise the lists again and again, knowing darn well there isn’t enough time for it all.

The best I’ve done so far is to realize that I have utterly ludicrous expectations of myself. I haven’t yet figured out how to stop myself from having them. I might have to accept that I never will.

So I’m (slowly, gradually) learning to do something that’s incredibly difficult for me.

I’m admitting—through clenched teeth because I soooooooo much don’t want it to be true—that I won’t ever accomplish everything that I want to.

Whew. I typed it. And my stomach just tied itself in a knot.

Because oh, my God, if I can’t accomplish everything, then I’m a failure! I’ll die with regrets! People won’t respect me! I will Be Less Than I Could Have Been! And that (*gasp!*) is a mortal sin against my life’s very purpose, whatever it is!

(Did I say something further up about all-or-nothing thinking?)

I will type it again, with emphasis.

I WILL NEVER ACCOMPLISH EVERYTHING I WANT TO DO IN MY LIFE.

I am mortal. I have a finite amount of time on this earth. I can only do so much. I need to breathe deep and let that fact sink deeply into my bones.

The first thing I experience when I do is an increased sense of desperation. If that’s true, then every single minute is precious! I shouldn’t waste any of it!

The second thing I feel is the arising of a quieter, steadier part of myself. She tells me that the real waste is allowing the time to fly by unnoticed as I obsess about the future. That if I accept that there is only so much I can accomplish, then I should be as fully present as I can in each moment, to make clear, intentional choices about how I spend my time.

She also says that living in the moment, as clichéd as that sounds, is the way to fully savor my life. This, she gently reminds me, also includes the not-so-pleasant feelings. Because even though chocolate and cheesecake taste mighty fine, I’d quickly get tired of them if that was all I ever ate.

We need the contrast to know when we have it good.

So I’m learning to catch myself in the act of engaging with old patterns—the ones that keep me fantasizing without taking action, making plans with unrealistic timelines, buying products that I keep hoping will be the “magic bullet” to solving this or that problem and not using them, and driving myself into the ground through obsessive workaholism and perfectionism.

Interestingly, I’ve noticed that I keep getting the same amount of frustrated even though I continue to expect different results. Funny, that.

So even if I simply notice that I’ve gone down my usual trail toward the murk and overwhelm, I’m trying to consider that a success, because you can’t change a pattern—especially one as ingrained as this—without first being aware of when you’re doing it.

Like I said at the beginning, there are no clear-cut answers here. But there is a growing awareness.

I’m thinking that’s a good first step.

Do you feel like you’ll never get caught up with all the minutiae of life?

If you’re anything like me, you’ve got piles of stuff to deal with lying around and weighing on your mind. Possibly to the point where you feel so stuck you can’t move ahead.

And it’s probably not even the truly important stuff—just the basic “to do’s” that happen over and over. Bills to pay, errands to run, magazines and journals to read, receipts to sort, laundry to do, papers to file, etc., etc., etc.

When all of these recurring tasks keep accumulating, how can you ever become current with them, let alone get to the things that you really care about?

You can. But first, you need to revise your definition of “caught up.”

Believe me, I know how tough this is. I’m still partly in denial about the fact that life’s inbox will never be empty. It’s no fun feeling like you’re in perpetual catch-up mode, and the fantasy of being on top of everything…someday…is SO attractive.

But our lives are much too complex for that these days.

There’s no way we can ever accomplish EVERYTHING we want (or think we should), so we need to be selective. That’s a meaty topic in itself, but first we need to feel in control of our current situation. And so…

Today’ I’ll offer one practical, hands-on way to deal with the backlog of stuff that’s holding you back.

Here’s how.

First, choose a physical space to start clearing. Start with one room at the very most, or make it even smaller—such as your desktop or a single file drawer—so that when you get it cleared you’ll have a feeling of accomplishment and spaciousness.

Pick an area that will make a difference in the way you feel. Would it be nice to eat at your dining room table again? Or find things in the hall closet? OK, start there.

Second, if you don’t already have one, find some kind of calendar and planning system that you will actually use, at least for now. Keep it simple—maybe a spiral notebook for making lists, some sticky flags to mark off sections in it, and an inexpensive calendar to jot things in. Think basic and functional while you figure out what system works best for you.

Next, grab a few empty boxes and start going through the physical space you’ve chosen. Remove any “to do” items and sort them into three and only three groups—Urgent, Non-Urgent, and Fuhgettabouddit.

In my experience, the Fuhgettabouddit pile is the toughest one. It’s where you need to be honest and ask yourself the question, “What’s the worst that can happen if I never do this?” If the answer is something you can live with, the corresponding piece of paper or other object goes into the Fuhgettabouddit box. And then you know where to dump it.

The urgent stuff goes in another box and will remain somewhere easily accessible for now. The non-urgent material goes into the other box(es) and can be moved to a temporary holding location.

The main thing is to get your to-do piles contained and out of the way. You’ll be surprised how much better this makes you feel, even though you haven’t actually done anything about what’s in the boxes yet.

Now comes the interesting part that’ll make you go, “Huh?”

Don’t worry about the stuff in the boxes.

That’s right. You’re starting today with a clean slate.

The Fuhgettabouddit box has been dumped. The non-urgent material is waiting in the wings. The only thing you should do is quickly go through the “urgent” box for anything that needs to be taken care of by a certain date, then schedule it in your calendar.

Leave the things themselves (bills, blank birthday cards, coupons, presentation handouts, or whatever) in the box for now.

Because now there’s only one place they can be. That alone can remove enormous amounts of stress.

Every evening take a quick peek at the next day on your calendar to check what you’ll need to have with you physically, then find it in the “urgent” box and place it where you won’t forget it in the morning.

So now you don’t even have to worry about the urgent stuff falling through the cracks.

Now, make it a habitual part of your daily or weekly routine (you can schedule this in your calendar as well) to gradually dig through the “non-urgent” box or boxes. This can be as simple as ten minutes twice a week, or five minutes a day. Nothing there is pressing, so it doesn’t matter if you go slowly, as long as you gradually work through the box(es). Just make the time period you block out extremely achievable and non-intimidating so you’ll really do this.

You now have a plan for dealing with your backlog and can start fresh.

The final step is to design a VSS (Very Simple System) to manage the stuff that moves through the area you’ve just cleared.

In other words, you’re starting from scratch—from a place of spaciousness and clarity. Without all the stuff that’s been cluttering up the space and keeping you stuck.

Again, begin simply. If you’ve just excavated your desk, for instance, you might create a new home for any bills that need to be paid—under a paperweight, in a tiny vertical sorter, in one of those giant paperclip standup thingies.

Or you might set up an “in” tray for magazines and other papers you want to read—and resolve not to let the stack grow higher than the top of the tray. If it does, make it a point to deal with enough of the things in it (read, file, or toss) to whittle the stack back down to size.

And that’s it, at least for starters. Just change one or two small things at a time, and wait until you get in the habit of using your new VSS before tackling another physical area and setting up more of them.

Baby steps. Just remember—baby steps.

Let me know how it goes.

A reader e-mailed me the other day, and out of curiosity I checked out her own blog before writing back. (You can find her at Grown Up Mom. )

What I read really moved me. In particular, she has a couple of recent posts about her youngest daughter’s attempt to get accepted into college to pursue a BFA and become an actor. The daughter is determined, but it’s rough out there, and the rejections are rampant. Her mother asks, “Is it stupid to encourage our children to follow their dreams?”

I e-mailed her back and said that I don’t think so.

As evidence of what can happen if children don’t follow their dreams, I shared with her a shortened version of the following story. Then I decided it was important enough to post about.

I’ve written before about how my perfectionism springs, in part, from having been a “people-pleaser” all my life. I learned early on from my parents, then my teachers and peers, to take my sense of self-worth from how I measured up against other people’s yardsticks—or what I imagined their yardsticks to be.

I also absorbed my parents’ messages about risk, and from these learned fear.

My parents were (are) loving, wonderful people, but they always encouraged me to play it safe, be cautious, and plan for the future. They always encouraged my extracurricular creativity and artistic interests, but when it came to schoolwork, I was told in no uncertain terms that the stakes were high.

“We’d still love you and be just as proud of you if you brought home Cs and Ds, as long as we knew you were trying your best,” they told me. (And to this day, I still believe they really meant that.) “But since you’re such a good student, and you enjoy school so much, it would really help if your grades stayed good enough to get a scholarship. College isn’t cheap.”

This was when I was about 10 or 11 years old.

No pressure, right?

As I hit my teens, I discovered pop and rock music. Unlike my peers, however, just listening and sighing dramatically over my favorite musicians wasn’t enough for me (though I certainly did my share of that, too). I decided I wanted to be a rock-and-roll singer. Front a band. Hold the masses in thrall with the power of my voice and my passion, just like my favorite singers did.

I felt it from them. I loved being on the receiving end. But I wanted to give back—to inspire other people with music in the same way that music inspired me.

But I’d already internalized the message that there was one standard, linear path to a financially secure life—get good grades in school, go on to college, and do well there so that you can land a good job when you graduate.

So it’s not that I took singing lessons or found a band to join and then succumbed to fear—I didn’t even try. I never even saw it as a viable option. Fantasize, sure, but actually pursue? I thought that this was a goal I couldn’t consider “for real”—so I never did.

I earned my B.A. from a good state university, moved to San Francisco, and have now spent over 20 years of my life doing administrative work in a series of “safe” office jobs. I’ve grown more and more miserable, and now, in my early 40s, I’m only just turning the corner and getting really, really angry at having spent so many years supporting other people’s agendas instead of my own.

I’m beginning to look at other options, but I have so much momentum (existing commitments, habits, fears, etc.) built up and pushing me in a direction I don’t want to be going, it’s that much harder to point myself in a new one.

Blogging here at Practice Makes Imperfect is partly my chronicle of breaking out of the people-pleasing mindset and finding the courage to figure out what my own dreams are after all this time.

Who knows? Maybe my rock star dreams would have turned out to be solid and enduring, in which case I might have been singing my heart out under the spotlight in your hometown this weekend.

Maybe I would have tried and totally screwed it up, or tried and pursued it until I was ready for something else.

Or maybe it would have turned out to be a passing teenage fantasy, and I would have at least gained a little experience and knowledge in an interesting area before I quit and moved on.

In any of those cases, my life would be different today for having tried to be a rock singer, even if only because I’d have developed more confidence in the ability to follow my own heart.

I wish I’d had the courage to take that path 20-25 years ago. But I also believe it’s never too late—and that following your dreams is one of the most practical things you can do, because it makes you energized, alert and happy. If you’re in those states, you can achieve a lot.

These days I reserve my singing for the shower . . . but I’m nurturing some other dreams.

I hope you’re doing the same.

My butt hurts.

Okay, metaphorically. But it still got a pretty good kick.

If you’re a writer, an artist, a person with creative goals of any kind, or an aspiring any-one-of-those, read on. I won’t kick you, promise.

But this other author might.

I’ve finished Steven Pressfield’s phenomenal book The War of Art, and the most difficult part of writing about it will be to NOT quote most of the book. It’s that good.

It’s also intense. Scary intense. Hardcore in the way that taking a good honest look at yourself—and then doing something real about it—is hardcore. This isn’t feel-good self-help, folks. This is gut-wrenchingly honest stuff. And that’s why it’s so fantastic.

The title is a clever reversal of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, the classic military treatise. The book itself is about the enemy every creative person (which, yes, really means every person) faces on the battlefield of life—resistance. Pressfield considers it important enough to capitalize.

Most of us have two lives. The life we live, and the unlived life within us. Between the two stands Resistance.

Have you ever brought home a treadmill and let it gather dust in the attic? Ever quit a diet, a course of yoga, a meditation practice? . . . Are you a writer who doesn’t write, a painter who doesn’t paint, an entrepreneur who never starts a venture? Then you know what Resistance is.

Got your number there? Mine, too.

I will now give you a micro-synopsis of the book, which, if you are human and breathing and have aspirations toward a better life in any way at all, I urge you to read as soon as possible. It’s fairly short and (hallelujah!) well-designed, but every page is pithy. Many statements are epigrammatic enough to crochet into samplers or emblazon across shields.

Book One defines Resistance, and discusses its many manifestations. (You’ll recognize most if not all of them.) Book Two talks about “turning pro”—the conscious, willful decision to give something your all regardless of the outcome. Book Three discusses the muse, life and death, the ego and the larger self, and other equally daunting yet relevant subjects.

The novel for which Steven Pressfield is probably best known (yep, because of the movie) is The Legend of Bagger Vance, which is a modern reimagining of the Hindu Bhagavad Gita. There are many parallels between those and The War of Art as well, but this post is long enough already. More on that if you want it . . . let me know in the comments!

I came away from The War of Art inspired—and also scared. Pressfield says this is good.

If you find yourself asking yourself (or your friends), “Am I really a writer? Am I really an artist?” chances are you are. The counterfeit innovator is wildly self-confident. The real one is scared to death.

The book feels like a clarion call to me—a clear ringing of trumpets urging me to rise to my highest potential. Very compelling.

But that’s what scares me. I recognize those trumpets. They tend to bring on countless iterations of the “passionately inspired – giving 110% – burning out” cycle, and now that I’ve become aware of my perfectionistic tendencies, I’m careful about anything that might send me spiraling recklessly down that path again.

So I skimmed through the book once more. And I found this:

Resistance outwits the amateur with the oldest trick in the book. It uses his own enthusiasm against him. Resistance gets us to plunge into a project with an overambitious and unrealistic timetable for its completion.

(Sound familiar, anyone?)

The professional, on the other hand, understands delayed gratification. He . . . steels himself at the start of a project, reminding himself he is in the Iditarod, not the sixty-yard dash. He conserves his energy. He prepares his mind for the long haul. He sustains himself with the knowledge that if he can just keep those huskies mushing, sooner or later the sled will pull into Nome.

From one perspective, how depressing! I want to read that success is possible by this time next month, dammit! Don’t talk to me about the long slog through the ice and snow. I’ve been slogging long enough already.

But there it is again. Wanting the magic bullet, the quick fix. Often combined with clever marketers trying to sell me on the latest weight-dropping, muscle-toning, productivity-boosting, time-managing, power-focusing product, service, or package, which is “the last thing you’ll ever need to buy to solve this problem!!!” until the next one comes along to weight down my bookshelf, clutter up my living room, or fill up my hard drive.

But.

There’s another perspective we can take.

What if we all simply started implementing the knowledge and systems we already have? What if we quietly, steadily, without fanfare, just started doing The Work (whatever that means for each of us)?

Difficult, yes. Every day we will face our own stuckness. But Pressfield (rightly, I think) tells us that

Resistance will unfailingly point to true North—meaning that calling or action it most wants to stop us from doing. . . . We can navigate by Resistance, letting it guide us to that calling or action that we must follow before all others.

If we can calmly face down Resistance every day (or at least keep showing up and giving it our best), how freeing! To not have to care about how good something is . . . to let it just pour out of us, trusting that it will gradually, naturally perfect itself over time?

That’s a mighty soft pillow for a sore butt to rest on.