“Good, better, best. Never let it rest. Until your good is better and your better best.”
“Good, better, best. Never let it rest. Until your good is better and your better best.” As a first grader in catholic school, this is what the nuns said, nay sang to us. Imagine hearing this message over and over as a small child. Would you raise your hand if you weren’t sure you had the answer? Would you volunteer to do the math problem on the chalk board if you knew how to begin but couldn’t see how the equation would unfold? I didn’t. Instead, I learned then that I had to be perfect. It has taken a lifetime to learn otherwise.
When I was trying to be perfect, I couldn’t take risks. I wouldn’t try a new skill lest I perform poorly (as is inevitable). Trying to be perfect kept me afraid. Most recently, I have been afraid of imperfectly supporting a friend who is dying. But I am showing up to spend time with her, I am bringing food (mostly beer and chocolate, her favorites), I am listening. And somehow it seems to hearten her.
Needless to say, I have never been perfect. I have been and am an imperfect mother, friend, sister, colleague, daughter. Yet, I am enough. And I am happier having let go of all the endless striving. This summer, I gave paddleboarding a try. I fell in the bay quite a few times. It was a beautiful day, the water was lovely, and I had a fabulous time.
Eileen Quinn
I am a lifelong Maine educator, co-founding The Community School in 1973 when I was 21, and then co-founding the Maine Academy of Natural Sciences in 2011. Helping students find self-respect and self-confidence in a society that often seems to be invested in taking those elements away from them – is my life’s work.
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Wander around and see which stories speak to you. Each story contributes to our collective experiences, creating a bridge of shared understanding.
Reflect on a meaningful poem, saying, quote, or song. It could be a loved or resented mother’s saying, or a quote that inspires you, or a heart-touching poem or song.
Amy’s belief in savoring each moment of life and saying “yes to the voice that tells me I should go out and do something now, even when that decision seems wildly impractical” guided her throughout her life. This approach became even more important after her cancer diagnosis.
I know very little about Heavy Metal Music. But after reading how Ryan Pfeil’s moving reflection and its connection to “Constance,” the song of the Canadian Progressive Metalband Spritibox, I wanted to learn more.
This past year, I turned 70, published my first collection of short stories, and lost my eldest brother to cancer. These events left me feeling as if I am only now beginning to know who I am.
Sometimes, the most difficult emotions can reveal things we could not know any other way.
And like Whitman, from time to time, we glide past the rigorous propriety of sanctioned learnedness and gaze “in perfect silence at the stars.”
