Paralyzed by Perfection

I dream of the perfect room: floral chintz sofa, plump battenburg lace pillows, white rocking chair, wild flowers tumbling out of a milk glass vase, filmy white curtains billowing in the breeze, buttery yellow walls, Queen Anne table with a softy glowing Victorian lamp and me, sitting in this charming room, sipping a cup of steaming, fragrant tea.

Not so charming reality intrudes--shabby burgundy couch and chair, dining table turned school table, bookcase overflowing with books, heavy drapes, a filing cabinet and an old brass lamp. I haven't vacuumed in awhile and the school books are scattered carelessly across the table. The windows are streaky and the window ledges dusty.

Feeling defeated, I gaze around the room again--where do I start to turn this space into the room I dream of? Because it is so far from what I want it to be, so far from the perfect room I keep in my head, paralysis sets in and I'm unable to do anything. Even simply cleaning the room seems impossible. I'm paralyzed by the perfection I demand of that room.

Here and there, one can catch a glimpse of the vision I have for my living room: the teacup and teapot collection, silk flowers in a yellow and blue vase, a pastel quilt draped across the back of the couch, an antique end table topped with a crocheted doily and lace panels behind the drapes.

Encouraged by these little vignettes, I banish the books from the table, and thin out the bookcase. Brass cleaner soon has the lamp gleaming and Windex makes the windows sparkle. I drape a doilly over the lamp shade and replace a modern picture with an heirloom portrait. I tie one of the drapes back with a fluffy tassle and the sunlight streams in. The whistle of a teapot calls me and soon I am holding my cup of steaming tea. Maybe this isn't the room of my dreams but it is the room of my reality. Today, I'm ok with that. And tomorrow, maybe I will figure out what to do about that couch...