A Gift from the Heart is Always Perfect

The Boston Globe

It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be done. That's what I've been telling myself these days. Give it a try. Do what you can. And if what you've done is a little short of excellent, if that photo of the moon is a blur, if that hibiscus you bought didn't thrive, if your gluten-free bread wouldn't win a prize, so what?

It's a philosophy that flies in the face of what I was taught, however. "Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well." That was the 11th commandment when I was a child. And "well" meant without flaws, no failure allowed, perfect, which is why to this day I don't dance in public.

Anyway. My husband had a big birthday two weeks ago. I decided to make him a lay-flat, hard-cover photo book. I looked through bins and boxes and old photo books and his baby book, selected and scanned about 100 photos, and tried to tell with these pictures the story of his life. And it came together, not quickly, not perfectly, not even chronologically. But I liked it. I reviewed it a dozen times to make sure I hadn't duplicated pictures. I clicked two-day shipping (I started this project late). Then I clicked order, exhaled, and felt, for the moment, satisfied.

But then, while putting away all the photos, I found one more plastic tub full of old pictures. And that's when I started beating myself up. I should have started the book sooner. I should have been more prepared. If I'd been organized — if, if, if — the book would have been better.

And, you know what? Maybe it would have. But I'd made something special from photos long forgotten. And it arrived in time for my husband's birthday. And he looked at it and he loved it. Was it perfect? Of course not. Nothing is perfect. But it was done. It wasn't just old photos stuck in boxes all over the house. It was pieces of his life in his hands.

My granddaughter Charlotte is 8 and writes me notes all the time. She mails them. She leaves them on my desk when she comes to visit. She doesn't care if the paper she writes on is perfect or if her writing slants or if she misspells something. There is no judgmental eye looking over her shoulder. I cherish these notes because I know she is thinking of me. Phone calls we don't make to friends because we don't have a lot of time; notes we don't send because we don't have the right stationery; gestures we don't make; projects we don't start. It's this idea that something won't be good enough that gets in the way of our doing such simple things.

My friend Maureen just made a baby hat for a grandniece due in May. She had never knitted before. She got herself a kit and a little instruction. Someone showed her how to cast on, then that same someone showed her how to knit and purl.

And then she was on her own.

On her own she purled when she was supposed to knit and she knitted when she was supposed to purl. And she dropped stitches and she added stitches and she tore things out. Then she went on YouTube and watched people knit. And she learned. And when the hat was finished and she had the option to add a crocheted flower? She went online and learned to crochet, too.

Is the hat perfect? The parents of the not-yet-born infant will think so. Just as my husband thinks his photo book is perfect. And that's all that matters, isn't it? A hat, a book, a photo of the moon, gluten-free bread, a thinking-of-you card, not quite perfect, but done and made with love.