That’s just perfect!

One of my deepest personality flaws—or charming idiosyncrasies, depending on your point of view—is that my reach always exceeds my grasp. I want everything to be perfect. I want my house to look like Martha Stewart’s more contemporary country retreat (I don’t share her love of pastels and earthy woods); I want my wardrobe to look like I stepped out of the pages of W or the Vogue or at least a J. Jill catalog. I want every meal I cook to resemble the cover story of Saveur. On the professional side, I yearn for the day when my little but growing content company is a success story featured in Inc. or even Fast Company (there’s a trend here, perhaps I should just stay away from newsstands!). I want a perfect relationship and fantastic, supportive friends, great hair, a well-behaved dog and skin that glows like a Benefit model (and oh how the copywriter in me loves their product names).

The thing is, while the details might change, I know I’m not alone in this quest for perfection—I’m just willing to admit it.

My rational side tells me that operate at this level in every sphere of my life is exhausting, frustrating and darn near impossible. Note that I had to qualify the impossibility. Besides, I work all week, first at my job, then at my business, I’m helping to found a new magazine in my spare time (hah!) and I spend my weekends playing catch up on errands, chores and pending deadlines. But nowhere does my dream of perfection and my frustration in not achieving it show itself most clearly as in my garden.

The garden in my head is a lush and bountiful landscape of colour and fragrance. A light breeze makes the perennial beds nod gently in the shade. My rose garden is heartbreakingly beautiful, with slender buds and full blooms of pale peach and silvery mauve perfumed floribundas, the rare chemise/flesh-tone Marilyn Monroe hybrid tea nestled next to the pure white of the J.F. Kennedy, just for fun. Plenty of ground cover, lemony evening primroses scenting the stark white curtains of the pergola at dusk, peppery nasturtiums, devil-may-care impatiens and velvety deep purple pansies. There are vibrant red and golden yellow heirloom tomatoes in the back garden, growing next to jewel-tone peppers and heady sage and basil. Mounds of morning glories in an ocean and sky palette gently embracing the fences and trellises. Somewhere, there’s a fruit tree bursting first with blossoms, then glossy bug-free apples or juicy cherries. Sigh. That’s the dream.

That dream begins anew every February when the seed carousels start appearing in stores. I love seeds. I love seed packages and catalogs…I even named my company after them. I love the promise they suggest, the potential they hold within. This year, my love bought me a tiny greenhouse and set it up in our summer room and I’m armed and ready (with seeds, seed starter, starter soil, little peat cups and a full supply of determination) to make the dream come true. And no, I know, once again this summer, the garden in my yard won’t match the garden in my head, but there will be flowers everywhere and a good crop of tomatoes and peppers on the way. And that’s good enough. For now.  It’s the reaching towards the Plato-inspired image of garden perfection in my mind that’s important. Staying on course. And blocking out those who think I should settle. Never.

Because frankly I don’t plan on tempering my goals or reducing expectations—not when I’m perfectly content in my aim for perfection.

This year's seed stash ready to be transformed into the perfect garden.

This year’s seed stash ready to be transformed into the perfect garden.



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