Imperfectly Perfect Moments in May

What if all the moments, the frustrations, the tears, the clutter, the scrapes and the mess, what if all of that was actually perfect.

The snippets we see of other’s lives are often only the perfect highlights they choose to share.

Our social media feeds are filled with perfection.

The photos of a perfect meal with no sign of the kitchen chaos that preceded the photo or the industrial level clean-up-job that will be required afterwards. No mention of the complaints and refusals of the ungrateful 10 year old to eat said perfect meal.

The video of a perfect sketchbook filled with glorious artwork, each page turned by beautifully manicured fingers, with no sign of dirty brushes sitting in murky jam jars, broken nails with scrappy cuticles, the paint underneath them so ingrained it will take an hour of scrubbing to remove.

we write them off as unreal. Or we feel disheartened by our inability to recreate such perfection in our own lives.

Minimalism and perfect tidiness are glorified. I often look around my home wishing for that perfection and simplicity.

And surrounded by the perfect highlights of other’s lives, we’re then told not to strive for perfection.

We’re told that perfection is ‘internalised oppression’, that it’s a ‘dream killer’, a delusion.

We’re told that done is better than perfect. That if you look for perfection, you’ll never be content.

Ugh.

But what if there was a different perspective? What if all the moments, the frustrations, the tears, the clutter, the scrapes and the mess, what if all of that was actually perfect too.

Perfect pups

3 weeks old now and ridiculously cute. When they sleep, they twitch and wriggle, stretching and yawning and crawling on top of each. I want to wake them to hear them yip and squeak and try out their tiny growls and barks. I want to watch them wobble around on their little legs, playing with each other. I want to cuddle them and sit with them while they crawl all over me, nibble my fingers and lick my nose.

They are starting to eat solids, seven tiny bowls filled with softened kibble. They put their faces in it and their paws. They climb across each other smearing goo everywhere, they climb into the water and tip it all over the clean towels. Spirit no longer needs stimulate them to poo and wee, and she doesn’t clear up after them anymore either. So the puppy pads are quickly soaked and dirtied. If we’re not fast enough to clean up, the little blighters walk in it, smear it all over themselves and their brothers and sisters.

But still, they are perfect.

A Perfect Nest

The blackbirds have built a nest in the shed again this year. Conveniently, they have positioned it so that I can quietly sneak in each day to take a photograph of the chicks as they grow, and set up my mini octopus tripod to film their parents diligently feeding and cleaning up after them.

They have nested in an old Royal Edinburgh All Butter Shortbread tin. Rusty and full of bits and bobs. It sits beside an old tin of Roses chocolates, bent out of shape and equally rusty and full of clutter. As the parents flit in and out of the shed, they hop across the car cleaning kit and laser level tripod case, leaving a patina of dirt from their feet.

A battered old Coleman camping stove and tubs of miracle grow sit on the shelf above them, and bamboo canes and boxes of tools hang below.

The chicks at first are naked and pink and shriveled looking, their eyes bulging behind closed lids, their bodies weakly twitch, waiting for their next meal. A parent arrives and they stretch their flimsy necks and open their tiny beaks to obtuse angles, greedily gulping down worms and bugs. They wriggle themselves around and poke their bottoms into the air so that their parent can collect and dispose of their tiny droppings.

As they grow, their feathers develop, showing first like black pins poking from their scrawny flesh, scruffy down sticks out at all angles. The nest, once so large for such tiny life, now barely contains them. It is uneven and untidy, twigs and roots and bits of grass and straw stick out at odd angles and hang down outside the tin.

And yet, it is perfect.

A perfect spring evening

I walk the dogs down the lane and a little way along the path by the side of the noisy link road. I lean across the brambles to take photographs of the horses in the field as the sun sets. But I can’t get a good shot so I walk a little further, resolving not to go so far as to encounter the mud that I know awaits along the way. I climb over the style and step closer to the barbed wire fence to get a better shot.

A wailing siren from the motorway accompanies the singing of the birds as I video the horses swishing their tails against the sunset.

I remember too late that this way leads to a large and stinking muddy pool of standing water and I am too slow to call the dogs back before they have jumped into it. Steve chooses to ram his furry body through the undergrowth and returns with a two foot length of vicious bramble twisted up around his legs and tail. He squirms and wriggles as I try to pull it free, unwinding it from his fur, bleeding copiously from the thorns that scratch and scrape and puncture my hands.

But still, it is perfect.

The perfect walk

It is warm and the sun is shining. What could be more perfect than a walk along the river. I would like to leave Steve at home and just take Suzie, as its a long walk and I know that he will be a pain. But he’s so excited, it feels unkind to leave him.

We must walk to the main road and down the hill and under the motorway bridge to reach the river path entrance. Steve weaves back and forth on the extent of the lead, pulling on my arm and making my shoulder ache already. The pavement down the hill is narrow and the cars pass fast and close while I wrangle with Steve and Suzie, trying to keep us all safe from the traffic.

We stop on the bridge above the river and I watch the water cascade down the weir. The yellow breast of a grey wagtail catches my eye and I stand still to try and video it while holding the dogs leads between my knees and trying not to drop my phone over the barrier into the water.

Along the river path the dogs are in and out of the water. They rush excitedly up and down the fence as a Jack Russell terrier barks at them ferociously from the other side.

Steve barks his excitement at everything, disrupting the peace and the beauty with his incessant noise. I knew I should have left him at home.

The river is high and escapes across the footpath at intervals. I have my wellies on, so I am safe from wet feet, as long as I am careful as I step across. I feel smug as we pass other walkers who wear less sensible footwear, and then guilty as they wait to let us pass, only for Suzie to stop right by them and shake herself vigorously. At least it’s clean water…

Alone again, the dogs exploring ahead, I hear birdsong that I don’t recognise. I check with Merlin¹, who tells me its a Sedge Warbler. I am enchanted. I am close enough to catch a glimpse through the reeds, but not quick enough to take a photo.

Just before we reach the lane where we must cross, where the path is narrow and where the number of walkers increases, Steve, until now wet but clean, find a patch of muddy black bog and leaps around exuberantly. I yell and wheedle and cajole until he comes close enough for me to grab and put on the lead. My feet might be dry, but I am now covered in mud.

A gentleman (not wearing wellies), warns me that the footpath the other side of the lane is flooded. I plan to walk all the way to Shawford and I don’t want to turn back yet. I have my wellies on, so I am sure I’ll be fine.

Over the lane and back on the footpath, I let the dogs off. Steve, excited to be free again, continues to yelp and bark and whine in delight.

The water along the path gets deeper, and rather than the occasional escape from the river on one side to the wetland on the other, the path is engulfed.

I step carefully and slowly, as the water is deeper still and now threatens to tip over the top of my boots. Which, soon enough, it does. My smugness now all gone, I give up and just wade through. The water has soaked my trousers all the way up to my knees.

We pass a sign warning of nesting swans. I call the dogs but they ignore me. I hope we can get past quickly and quietly and the swans will remain undisturbed. I am wrong. Steve and Suzie are spaniels. Chasing birds is their passion. I forgot.

The swan erupts through the reeds between me and the dogs, hissing and growling, legs and neck stretched up and huge wings arched in indignation. The dogs scatter and the swan retreats into the wet undergrowth on the other side of the path.

I yell for the dogs to ‘get back here right now’. They are unabashed as they continue to bounce around enthusiastically. Oblivious of the danger. Finally, they listen and return so I can capture them and put them on the lead. I think bad thought about them and tell them off. I drag them passed the swan, which sits in the water, defiant.

I pause. I can’t miss the opportunity to take a photo. I swallow my apprehension and venture back a few paces, then a few more. I grip the leads between my knees again and take a few quick shots, hoping that at least one of them will turn out OK.

We walk on. I release them from their leads again. The path rises and the water recedes. I can see water lapping inside my right wellie so I pause to empty it and squeeze some of the liquid out of my sock. As I teeter on one foot, balancing against a rickety fence post, my hand brushes lightly against the stinging nettles in the verge. Ouch. Well, at least that will take my mind off my wet feet. I struggle to get my right wellie back on and decide not to empty the left one. Now, Steve’s incessant noise is accompanied by the loud squelching of my boots.

We are almost to the end of our walk and I must catch Suzie again and put her back on the lead before she charges off across the fields after the jackdaws or pushes her way through the fence to investigate the cattle. I allow Steve to remain free, as he will stay closer if Suzie does. They’re both clean, at least.

Until we turn a corner and then, more mud. Great.

I throw treats into the river, hoping to lure them in for one final swim to wash off some of the mud. Suzie obliges, but Steve is having none of it. I give up.

We turn up towards the road and even though we’ve been walking for almost two hours, the dogs still have the energy to pull right to the end of their leads. My feet are uncomfortable, my legs are wet and cold and their incessant tugging is making my arms and shoulders ache.

I call for rescue and traipse just a little further to a bench by the road, where, with great difficulty, I remove my wellies. Ah, bliss. Mr P arrives and we drive home, wet feet, smelly dogs, and a camera full of photos and videos of our little excursion.

It was decidedly not the perfect walk.

And yet, it was.

So I will share my perfect pictures of our ridiculously cute puppies, the growing blackbird chicks, the glorious sunset, and a wonderful walk down the river on a beautiful sunny day in May.

And I will remember the rough edges of our lives, the brambles and the stinging nettles, the scruffy nest in a rusty tin, the wet smelly dogs and puppy poo, and I will see the perfection in it all.

I hope that you will too.

Bye for now

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