I had so many things I wanted to write this week, but unfortunately some of them must now fall to the wayside, and others will make it into my post next week. Forgive me: it's 1am on Sunday evening and I have notebook pages, voice memos, and open tabs on my computer all containing disjointed thoughts and garbled stories. Until tonight. I have my Dad to thank for that.
He called me on his Sunday drive over to the church building; I had just finished dinner in Lausanne, seven hours ahead. He asked me how I'm feeling.
I'm getting married in just a few hours. C and I will march down to our local courthouse, stand in front of the magistrate, and make things official. Everything is simple, and the actual ceremony will only last about 15 minutes. But in those 15 minutes, I will play "Save It For A Rainy Day" on the guitar; which is my favorite song, and the tune that has played at every major life event I've experienced from the first moment I heard it. I've been practicing it for two weeks solid, and it's the first song I'll ever play publicly on guitar.
Much earlier today, I was practicing for the last time before our wedding, and I performed the song for C, who smiled at me sweetly and said, "It's good!". I wilted a bit at hearing that; I knew for a fact that it was just good. Not great. Not amazing. Not living up to the high standard I'd set for myself. This sent me into a doubt spiral that had me in our bedroom quietly crying while pretending to practice; C remained outside unawares, jovially attending to his smoking grill. I had all but given up on the unconventional idea of performing my favorite song at our courthouse appointment.
When my dad called, it was right as the apartment had briefly gone its separate ways: I was in the kitchen; C was changing out of his smoke-filled clothes; and our company (as well as our witnesses for the marriage tomorrow), C's cousin and his wife, were on the couch talking.
Without thinking, I launched into recalling my earlier meltdown to my Dad, who listened quietly, as I stated of my performance:
"It was good, Dad, it just wasn't great."
"But honey," he says, "this could be an excellent reminder to yourself, and could even serve as a metaphor for your marriage in the future.
Things won't always be perfect. In fact, 'perfect' can be the enemy of greatness. But a lifetime of good, just good, is a great life. If you strive for things to always be perfect, you'll miss out on the incredible happiness you could feel spending a good life with someone you love. Sometimes a whole lot of "good" is better than anything else."
Thank you, Dad. I will play that song today.
And it'll be good.