In It’s Own Way
Everything is perfect, in it’s own way.
This, uttered by the insightful craziness from my opposite sex doppelganger, has stuck to me. This phrase, so simple and yet so encompassing of, like, everything, has given me a confidence in my daily, weekly and projectly dealings ALONG with accessing a level of tolerance and understanding of others and situations that I would not have had if I had not heard that.
And thought about it.
She might not even realise the impact she had when she made that statement, in passing at that, as she referred to my less than neat handwriting. A handwriting that was once compared to what a cockroach dipped in ink would leave across a piece of paper as it scurried across.
I had suffered throughout my school years with my handwriting. I remember once, in primary school, I got a 9.5 out of a 10 for the essay in this English exam. But just next to that, crossed out in the stern red ink that teachers’ employ to exert their authority, was a 2!
A TWO! Out of a possible TEN!
I asked my class teacher about it and she said that the one who marked the paper gave me that abysmal mark initially, and that she had to sit down with the marker and read out the essay, word by word. And then only did my score jump to a 9.5.
And art classes were worse. And I couldn’t have anyone around to explain on my behalf that this was a coconut palm and that was a boat now, could I?
So, going back to my doppelganger’s words, I became fuelled with the idea that everything is perfect, in it’s own way, and undertook the most daring of modules (I was doing my first degree then). One on graphic design that was all about the drawing and stuff. Stepping so out of my comfort zone that, when I was handed the module outline, every pore on my skin erupted in a frenzy of sweat. Especially considering that the previous batch barely scraped through, a C their highest. I already had unintelligible handwriting, how on earth was I supposed to DRAW?
My work would be perfect, in it’s own way. Mantra.
I poured my heart and soul into the formidable module (formaduble), going overboard trying to get the lines drawn with Pantone markers to not dry when I applied the next jagged one, understanding that red was HOT and blue was COOL, updating my design ledger so much that it became a scrapbook of doodles, spending hours on end poring over art books in the library…
And I got an A.
Me, whose handwriting was indecipherable and couldn’t draw a proper stick figure, was hailed as a hero in my class.
Cockroach scurries still emerge from the tip of my pencil (as you can well attest to, dear reader). But now, I don’t feel apologetic for it, nor worried. At all.
Coz, it’s perfect, in it’s own way.
LogsLeft.
P.S. Thank you, doppelganger. You are perfect.
LogsLeft
Yep. She was right.