I’m sitting at my kitchen island while waiting for Ted to answer because my phone battery is on 8% so I’m plugged in. While it rings, I watch a humungous blue jay scavenge for food in the birdfeeder outside the back window. An eighteen-pound bag of wild bird food, the economy mix, sits right under that window with a plastic cup in it, ready for refilling the feeder. Christine, the former owner of the house left the three bird feeders and two bird baths in hopes that I would continue to care for the birds. But I’ve been doling out the food a little at a time because feeding these sons of a gun would break the bank.
“God, these birds are starving!” I said to Nick before he left to shoot his movie in Montana. “It’s going to take a fortune to keep these feeders filled.” I was feeling a bit resentful because I’m sick of taking care of others and this feels a little like a burden. I mean, aren’t wild birds supposed to take care of themselves? Then I feel terrible for feeling that way. Thanks to Deb, everyone already thinks I hate dogs and now we’ll have to add birds to the list. Nick has enjoyed standing in the sunroom with a cup of coffee watching them gather at the feeder in the mornings. But getting the step ladder out of the garage to pour the bird seed in the top of the feeder just feels like another chore on my long list, when what I’m craving is simplicity and freedom.
“Whatchadoin?” I ask Ted when he answers. The Blue jay flies off, mad.
“Making molasses sugar cookies,” he answers with a mouthful.
“It sounds like you’re eating molasses sugar cookies,” I say.
“I’m making them for the housekeeper. I have to see if they’re good.”
“Well, leave a few for her to try,” I say.
“What are you up to on this lovely morning? Are you doing your quiet time? It must be easier to do since you’ve had the house in Franklin all to yourself,” Ted says.
“I haven’t done my quiet time once since I’ve been here. I’ve hit the ground running every day.”
“Hmmm…curious. I mean I can understand your difficulty when you’re at home in California. Nick coming in the room and talking to you. Omar needing something, yelling, ‘Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom. Mom…”
“I know right? I didn’t even bring my books with me. Not my Book of Common Prayer, not my Emmet Fox daily reader. All I do is grab my coffee and watch a mindless HGTV show while I wake up.”
“Well, The Property Brothers are pretty good company. Sounds like maybe you’re looking for a distraction from your to-do list.”
“I don’t need company. I feel so much calmer and more grounded on the days that I make time for prayer and reading and reflection. I don’t know why I let it fall by the wayside. I guess I get lazy. And HGTV helps me empty my brain while I wake up. Do you still do yours every day?”
“Yep. I never feel like my brain is awake and alert either. I usually just sit quietly for a few minutes and then start reading.”
“Well, I have no excuse. It’s so quiet here in the mornings. I don’t have to spend an hour picking up everybody’s stuff, Nick’s shoes and clothes thrown in the middle of the dining room, Omar’s Popeye’s bags left on the kitchen counter and his cup with soda and melted ice puddling in the fridge. Then getting the dogs up and making sure they get outside and have water and then yelling at them to shut up every time someone walks by the front gate… on and on. When I wake up in this house, everything is still and quiet and every item is in its proper place. I might see a crumb on the floor and grab the vacuum to clean it up.
“These cookies are good. But I forgot to roll them in sugar.”
“Are you listening to me?”
“Huh? Did you say something?”
“I love, love, love my sofa so much.” Ted and I have been besties for fifty-four years, so no segue is ever required. Two days earlier, he had come to visit me in Franklin and helped me shop for my new house. Our last stop before naps and dinner on Saturday was at a furniture store where, in the vestibule entry sat an absolutely stunning green velvet sofa. I gasped and said I said I loved it. He said he did too and gave me the thumbs up. “I sit on a different spot every time because I don’t want to wear a depression in the bench cushion.”
“Obviously. Then you fluff the back cushion every time you get up, I hope.”
“Oh, hey! Did I tell you about that book on the Enneagram my friend Leisa sent me?”
“If you did, I wasn’t listening.”
“Yes, I told you that our priest writer guy, Richard Rohr also wrote a book about it.”
“Our priest writer guy? Seriously? You mean Richard Rohr the Franciscan priest, one of the most popular spirituality authors and speakers in the world?”
“Would you pay attention? I told you I took my realtor friend, Leisa out to dinner and she started telling me about the Enneagram, then sent me a book. So apparently, the Enneagram is…” (here I picked up the book to read from the dust jacket,) “‘a personality type system that helps in understanding yourself and your relationships and how you make your way in the world.’ And they quote Thomas Merton describing, ‘…the one challenge on which all of life rests: to discover our true selves in discovering God, and to find more of God in finding more of ourselves.’”
“Are you still talking?”
“So, I took the quiz and learned, surprise, I’m a Number One, the Perfectionist. And before you say anything, I know I’m bad at being a Perfectionist. And therein lies the problem. I can never make things perfect and it’s maddening. I really think Number Ones should not have children!
“I’ve been telling you that. Children? Ew.”
“Yes, you have. There’s no doubt that you are also a Number One. I can base that solely on the time you made me get that expensive white 100% cotton hotel bedding collection from Restoration Hardware that you claimed needed to be ‘crisp ‘and I discovered that meant it had to be ironed. And you told me it was only for looks and not to let the kids come anywhere near it.”
“You’re the one who won’t let people sit on your sofa.” Ted, of course, knew my story about my first new sofa, the one I purchased for our first house in Burbank when Chloe was four years old. Nick’s mom had given me money to buy some furniture and I went straight to Ikea and bought a forest green and white striped cotton sofa and matching chair. It was pristine and I meant to keep it that way. Chloe, who sat on the rug with her bestie, Levi, coloring and watching TV asked, “Mom, can we get some furniture we can sit on?”
He also knew the story about the last sofa he helped me pick out for my house in Burbank, a Lexington sectional covered in indestructible micro-fiber (I had learned through the years.) Nick’s friend, Bill came over one night soon after the purchase and the two of them were sitting in the living room chatting and drinking a whiskey. Bill asked if the sofa was new.
“Brand new. And Bill, I have to tell you I’m not very comfortable with you sitting on it.”
“What? You mean me sitting here actually makes you uncomfortable?”
“I mean, yes. You can continue sitting there, I’m just letting you know it’s very distracting.” Bill looked at Nick.
“She’ll barely let me sit on it,” Nick said.
“That’s weird,” Bill said, then went back to his conversation.
These tendencies of mine are starting to make sense as I learn more about the personality traits of Number Ones, The Perfectionists:
Healthy Ones are committed to a life of service and integrity. They are balanced and responsible and able to forgive themselves and others for being imperfect. (Ummmm…)
Unhealthy Ones fixate on small imperfections. (I hope Nick doesn’t read this.) Their inner critic works overtime. They are terrified of making a mistake. They are obsessed with micromanaging what they can. Asserting control over something or someone is their only relief.
When secure, Ones can be more spontaneous, fun and open to trying new things. The voice of their inner critic gets quieter, they are not as hard on themselves, and they shift their attention from what’s wrong with the world to what’s good and right about it.
Reading about personality traits and how they change according to emotional and spiritual health is really interesting and hopeful. You mean I’m not just a stressed-out shrew by nature? Or I am, but that side of me can be tempered and adjusted by a higher level of faith and security?
What I do know about myself is that “hitting the ground running” is a bad habit. Hitting the ground running is The Perfectionist run wild. The Perfectionist says there are not enough hours in the day to do all that needs to be done. She says it has to be done now and it has to be done right, which means it has to be done by her. And then she asks, “Why can’t I get any help around here?” When there’s no time to waste on quiet reflection, Number Ones like me become unhealthy. Then what happens? See above.
I thank Ted for the reminder and when we hang up, go straight to my laptop to download Around the Year with Emmet Fox. It’s never too late in the day to sit down and do my quiet time. Today, I’ll also meditate on the suggestions for Spiritual Transformation in the Enneagram book:
I don’t need to be perfect to be good. What a relief. I long to be more spontaneous, fun and open to trying new things. And I know that if I don’t make my quiet time a priority, my perfectionist tendencies will run rampant. I renew my intentions to do my daily reading, prayers and quiet reflection. I’ll ask God to help me be less Number One-ish. I will let people sit on my prisitine new sofa. And maybe I will even enjoy feeding the birds.
