Life is perfectly messy as it should be

“It’s all messy: the hair, the bed, the words, the heart, life.”

– William Leal

The last time we connected a few weeks ago, I was commenting about the change in the seasons. We had an abrupt beginning and end to summer and the risk of an early autumn. Autumn now has officially arrived, and with it, cooler temperatures and cloudy skies. 

I’m back in my writing loft. My time here is bookended by my birthday celebration in the Côte d’Azur and my pending departure for Italia in two days. I’m carrying more optimism since I returned, even though the rain is coming down in buckets and the wind is tearing up the valley. Nature is proving that in the change of seasons, life and weather is perfectly messy.

The two weeks away did me well. I spent a few days in Montpelier with Sean and Jean from Paris. After that, I traveled to Sainte-Maxime and Saint-Tropez with friends, new and cherished. I healed my mediocre summer blues under glorious sunshine alongside azure-blue waters. The don’t call this place the Côte d’Azur for nothing. 

I ate glorious dinners out with friends and was able to break away from the isolationist tendencies that I have acquired over the last 18-months. I found some of the most beautiful coves and beaches to swim in the warm Mediterranean. Oh, and I also stumbled upon a few nude beaches. When in Rome or Saint-Tropez – do as the Tropeziennes do. 

I do enjoy a naturist beach experience. There’s something wonderful about swimming in the buff, and France has many opportunities to do so. I admire the people that show up and are willing to put aside any feelings of shame. They are comfortable in their perfectly imperfect selves. On those beaches you will see all types of people; young and old, gay and straight, skinny and robust, representing varying ethnic and social backgrounds. What I appreciate most is how all of those differences disappear when we’re all in our birthday suits laying on the same sand under the same sun.

In that quiet cove us sunbathers were liberated from the messiness happening in the outside world. That beach was hardly crowded, but there no room for fear, judgement or anxiety of what tomorrow would bring. It was on that day, lost in my thoughts and mindless of the dozens of nude sunbathers around me, when this post began to develop. It’s about how life is perfectly messy and perhaps my journey is to get OK with messy and stop expecting the expected.

Admitting that life is perfectly messy

I thought a lot about what I would like to bring into my 51st year, as well as what habits and horrors I would like to leave behind, as I learn to love the person that sits underneath layers of my life experiences.

Many of my thoughts seem to collect around this idea of striving towards perfection. In my personal life, I have spent most of my life avoiding things or people that appear to be messy or complicated. I prefer people or things to be nice and tidy, predictable and organized. Even spontaneity should be allowed for in advance.

My sister reminds me often that within the messy moments is where real life happens. I think that’s why these last few years in Europe have been so rewarding, but at times challenging for me. Life here has been a never-ending journey of discord. Language, culture, making friends and lovers, it’s all messy. A pandemic is certainly messy, and in general, daily life is perfectly messy as it should be. 

I wanted to write a chapter in the book that focused on my first memory of being alive, that moment when I became conscious of my existence. My original discomfort with messiness started back when I was three-years old and getting my first recollection of life. It was my first experience with imperfection.

I hope you enjoy the section that I have entitled, “An imperfect start.” I think it’s a great reminder that in our earliest years we can be shaped in such a way that we spend our entire lives combating the fear of the unknown and avoiding the chaos of moments when life is perfectly messy-as it should be.

An imperfect start

I remember my feet dangling over the side of the kitchen countertop in our house as I tried to hold back the tears streaming down my face. That countertop was where most first-aid treatment was conducted when my brother, sister and I were children. Bee stings, cuts and scrapes, bicycle mishaps, the pale green formica was the exam table and it saw its fair share of medical interventions over the 18 years my family occupied that house.

Some Universal awareness of life awoke in me that day as I sat on the countertop. It was where I became conscious of my actual being. I was three-years old, and my brain suddenly decided to begin recording vivid memories into my story. It was the memory that began all memories of my life.

I cannot recall what actual mishap occurred that brought me to the kitchen exam table that day. However, I do remember my parents providing first-aid; my mother with a bottle of peroxide, my father with bandages and me with torn jeans and a bloody knee. 

I can still see their quizzical expressions as they turned their attention away from the immediate medical intervention and focused on my chubby three-year old legs. They were having a subtle debate about what they were both seeing. They had realized for the first time that my legs were not the same length. 

My father extended both of my legs, and it was obvious, something did not look right about them. Something was imperfect. Something was messy.

Fear creeped into my three-year old mind because I felt their concern. I could tell on their worried faces that this was going to be something of importance. Perhaps, I even foreshadowed the next several months. This was not going to be a normal entry into my life-long consciousness. 

The next several weeks are blurry to me with many doctor visits and finally a trip to a hospital in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania that specialized in children’s health care. I can still see the waiting room with its animal prints on the wall; giraffes, lions and monkeys-a jungle scene designed to distract the young patients from the clinical setting. I believe it was there when the diagnosis was clear, and the treatment plan set. 

Over the course of the next several months I underwent surgery to correct a medical problem called “Legg-Perthes” disease, a condition when blood flow stops flowing to the femur in the hip. The immediate effect was that my left leg stopped growing. Without blood flow the hip joint was beginning to die.

I was fortunate to have an early diagnosis and medical care. The treatment involved two separate surgeries with lengthy hospital stays, weeks in weighted tractions, six-weeks in a body cast and finally a lot of physical therapy to strengthen and correct my walking.

I spent a good portion of my early fourth year in a hospital bed and its child-protective cage with raised bars to prevent escape and injury. Even if I could escape, my left leg was elevated with a weighted pully to extend the hip and allow the surgery to produce the desired results over the course of several weeks. 

My most vivid memories of that time are not of the pain, which apparently there is quite a bit of with this procedure, but of the feeling of fear, the sense of being different and imperfect at such a young age. I recall the interactions with nurses and hospital staff bearing needles, medical instruments or bad food. 

If I dig deeply, I can catch a vague glimpse of the faces of the other young children that shared my hospital room at times. There was one particular young boy that to this day still stays with me. I remember his mother and him, his pain and sadness. Although I don’t recall what his illness was, my memory tells me it was more severe and grave than mine.

It was during this time when I began to develop an unhealthy relationship with food. There was no shortage of contraband cuisine being smuggled into my hospital room by my Italian nonna. It became a source of comfort when other activities weren’t available to me. That unhealthy relationship is still something that I am mindful of today, 47-years later.

The only physical proof of my ordeal is the scar I wear on my left hip. At times I unconsciously trace it with my finger. It brings me back immediately to those first memories of my existence. However, it no longer triggers the worst of my messy early memories. Instead, I see mostly the best memories; 

• I remember the nights my mother stayed in the hospital with me and held my hand as I slept. Her arm uncomfortably suspended between the chair and metal safety bars until I fell asleep. 
• My sister took on the role of a surrogate nurse. She carried me around in the body cast when I was too tired to crawl on my own. She used a metal handlebar that was set in the cast just at where my knees were located.
• I couldn’t play outside so my brother would bounce me on my bed to entertain me. One time I flew so high in the air that I literally launched off the bed and simultaneously broke the bed frame and the body cast. 
• I remember the family and friends who would offer to babysit us as children until they realized their job when I needed to use the bathroom. It was quite entertaining even back then. I don’t remember many repeat babysitters.

The next year I started school. By that time, I had overcome the immediate physical challenges. However, I always was a bit slower and apprehensive to run and play with other children. I had a fear that at any point I would do something and undo the effect of those surgeries, body casts and caged hospital beds. I never wanted to return to that messy hospital again.

As life unfolded over the next decade or so, those first memories would continue to provide me an excuse for my unwillingness to take risks as a child, to lean towards caution and away from adventure.

I think about how I developed beyond that first unpleasant event and with the future challenges of life. Now I understand why I carry a formidable sense of caution even while trying to live a life that is on the fringe of safe and secure.

I faced imperfection and messiness early on in life. Despite how many adventures I have experienced and courageous moments I have mustered, there was always a part of me that wanted to turn away from it. 

I think one of the best gifts I can give to myself in this European experience is to fully embrace the imperfection and messiness of my life and of the world. I do believe my sister is right, it is within the messiness that life happens and not in the sterile environment that I have always strived to create. 

Perhaps the answer is to lean-in and welcome the messiness. This is where life is lived, and it’s perfectly messy as it should be.

Thanks for reading this post about my excavation of imperfection and messiness. Your comments and feedback are always inspiration to me to keep writing. If you are interested in subscribing to my regular updates, please add your email in the box below. If you want to see more of Saint-Tropez, I found a great walking tour on YouTube here. I was captivated by the sights and sounds of Saint-Tropez and how a sleepy little French fishing village became an international destination.