I have thought today that whatever or whoever does not obviously shine is seldom remarked upon. That is, at least in the way we overall understand the popular verb “shine”: emanating a light-infused energy that is bright, eye-catching, at its best extraordinary. We humans do like to witness what we deem shiny–it appeals to our senses (also to crows and racoons among others) and our responsive emotions. The simpler everyday or dull, discarded things–never mind, moving on, not intetesting enough.

But why is medicocrity given a such bad rap, the accepted concept considered when specifying degrees of competence? According to a quick search, mediocre performance implies a lack of true interest, drive and/or determination needed to reach greater heights– to excel and be lauded for it, to make a mark that defines a person and his/her work as exceptional. Or perhaps the individual was “born mediocre” per a so-called expert (or even observer), so that is that–doomed to forever to less than appreciated. But it is subjective too often, and defined by certain standards set in a time, place, community, belief system. Not that there should never be a way of measuring acceptability, at the least. My husband, a statistician and engineer in quality control would be adamant about that need in so many areas. But when it comes to people, how fast we are to judge.

Mediocre work is, thus, seen as commonplace, ordinary, ascribed to someone who “gets by” and does a good enough job to not fail but does not stand out in a crowd. Someone who manages to live an average kind of life but never makes it to a specific–or nebulous–greater goal. That strict judgment separates medocrity from “better” and “best”. It deserves a “C’ grade, and is thus caught between fast failing –a “D” or “E”– and greatly improving–a “B”–then triumphing to an “A” or yes! an “A+”. And in our culture of working hard to overcome all obstacles and becoming the victor is admired, praised and compensated well. So, acceptable is okay, but not fine enough to expect more beyond it. And though it appears to be a manageable state, it can teeter at the edge that forecasts a potential fall and failure. One is worthy/better than or one is not, apparently. But work simply–when it boasts external evidence– catches the eye when outstanding.

But I protest.

What could be managed in our living if not for the commonplace, the unseen daily work and enduring efforts, unsung, of countless people? What would I do without my simple routines and unexciting tools of life utilized to get me up and going each morning? We surely depend on what is not touted as fabulous. My toothbrush does not have to win awards, just do its basic job. I don’t demand AAA quality in everything from pjs to paperback covers, everyday black tea bags to a simple sale mug. The little things count but they don’t have to wow us, either. Our lives are built of many parts.

This is like ignoring the scafffolding and foundation of a building that goes on to win architectural prizes for its beauty and design, but who out there recognizes the construction at hidden, below ground level– and the workers? And how about the structure that never draws attention but its functional presence on a city block or on a farm is utilized and thus appreciated day in and out? Which is the finer thing? They both have the bones needed to support many exterior materials and the innards to make them useful, complete. So there are unremarked-upon events/objects/tasks that support us as we traverse life’s paths from morning til night and beyond. I imagine we take much for granted because they’re not flashy bits, so we can forget their importance. Until they begin to fade or vanish and we can no longer count on them. Same with human beings.

I consider ordinariness or mediocrity and how it has been situated in my life. Once that would have been painful to examine. I was raised by parents who pushed us to achieve and reminded us that not using talents was a kind of sin–to not develop aptitudes and excel was not acceptable. We kids were early on informed we were given much, so we were expected to do much. (Re: smart, talented so better prove it.) That, in itself, was not a bad philosophy. But there was little to no leeway regarding how things must be done. If failure occurred–say, a musical measure botched four times when practicing my cello– it was met with frowns, silence and inevitably sharp criticism. If I sewed a zipper in poorly, there was the same response. If I did not fix the salad right, I must remake it. Okay, I got it as I learn fast. Repeat again, again–no errors. At moments, I imagined that somehow, somewhere, mediocrity might be safer, a comforting “okay”, a place to rest from constant demands. I knew how to work hard and I didn’t mind that part–but was it ever enough?

I developed strong self-discipline, endurance, persistence so don’t get me wrong–I understood early the value of competition, how it can be enjoyable, how it can spur you on, how it could increase motivation. And how some young people thrived when competing all the time, or so it seemed. But it also, in my experience, made reaching perfection the goal, itself. Perfection, ever out of reach mostly, became both an idol and an enemy. “Excellence above ALL”, I wrote over and over by 12. Otherwise, better to stop doing whatever is supposed to be done that well– because it was a huge embarrassment, the failure to meet high expectations. I thought I must be both, too– a simple deduction.

Everyone wants their parents and teachers to be encouraging, to praise good efforts even if the result isn’t quite as it should be. Still, I must note that this parenting style was not that different from many parents’ I knew in my town. They wanted the very best for their offspring. It was post-WW2, life was getting good again, and there was much great opportunity. But it got tiresome after many years. It made me a perfectionist, not healthy as it skews the sense of self. My siblings and I ultimately succeeded in achieving several goals by society’s standards, but it was not always happy success. I was proud of goals met because I had reached levels beyond the dreaded mere competency. It didn’t occur to me as a teen to argue: “Why can I not be more average– at least sometimes?” Not a choice. It made living harder, especially when growing up.

The thing was, it was interesting to push myself, too. I knew that internal reward was an outcome. I liked learning very much, too, so tackling new challenges was a good thing, filled with surprises, statisfaction, strides toward new goals. But it felt like there lurked a voice of judgment no matter what I endeavored or how I finished up. That voice that said I was never good enough, even if I had accomplished something that others found laudable. It was a struggle between real confidence and a terror of failure for decades.

Well, real life does get lived, in any case and finally you look at yourself–and ask what of it all? Now I am about to turn 76 and have gained other perspectives and experiences. It has sure been a twisty road from “Down with mediocrity” to “Let’s embrace whatever happens.” Today I look back and think, What a waste of time and tears and such a burden of troubles when I could have been having much more fun. But I learned to be happier over time. I had to let myself discover it more. As a very young girl I sought small adventures that were silly and curious, even exciting, and it was possible at any age.

But there were many interests I squelched as I became an adult. If I worked at something a short time but there was little progress, made too many mistakes, the project was shelved–I quit. Some activities I barely would attempt–like sewing. I loved going into fabric stores with my mother, the smell of it was comforting, I was excited about the kinds of material and the rich colors, the numerous designs, the paper patterns. I tried to sew. And quit. I couldn’t even cut fabric along the pinned pattern silhouette well enough for my mother. I got tearful, quietly. Craftsy things (even knitting)? All thumbs, I felt. More: flower or vegetable gardening, though I adored the earth and its plants and critters. Decorating, though I had an aesthetic sense early on and wanted to learn more. Cooking, well, that was not up my alley, but I had to do it for my soon-large family. I gritted my teeth, smiled at those hungry faces and simply did it for them.

I was never thought to have great talent in domestic areas and often didn’t enjoy them. I managed to do a few–and I remained barely mediocre. Which my first mother-in-law, father-in-law and then my husband made perfectly clear. I was nothing but a poet. Well, I can make tasty chili, beef stew, have even canned and baked a bit…

There were certain things I tried and learned better as I worked and raised kids while Marc was flying on business here and there. We take the time and use the energy we have, hoping for good outcomes. For me, it was survival: creative activity was my lifeline as it was since c hildhood–a joy and a liberation. I kept writing in spurts, took a few classes. I kept fit (weight training), enjoyed dancing and outdoor recreation– ice skating, hiking, swimming, diving. Bicycling and baseball with the kids. I made up songs to sing when alone. It took me until 45 years old to join a few choirs. It was about improvisation–learning how to seek out what is available, then to just do it without self-censure. It took internal discipline to keep at it. If I told myself it was a hobby and just good for me, that helped–I could then have fun. I wasn’t waiting for anyone to deliver my grade card–my fate.

Often people who become my friends are surprised I have a deep interest in art–not just galleries and museums, nor books full of it, though I do love art history. Making art, that was the thing. And I have kept going back to it. In college I majored in art alongside English and creative writing. I drew. I painted–alot, big canvasses I made and stretched myself, painting with oils and acrylics, brilliantly hued abstract sorts of landscapes, dreamscapes. I was happy, did well, got my As, and there was encouragement from professors, even from my sculptor husband. Then other events interrupted that flow so I put away the paints, pencils and pastels. Yet I found myself lingering in art stores…touching things, imagining projects, filled with wonder over it all. I began to buy sketchbooks for only me as I got supplies for my growing family. It was as if I had permission to enjoy with them various creative activities. When they drew, I drew. As they cut up colorful shapes and plastered those and lots of odd things on paper I did, too. I loosened up, played with it as they did. But what I wanted to do more was draw and paint. Alone, for myself. And I sketched now and then, but still felt stuck by the lack of confidence. And lack of regular engagement.

I took a watercolor class last year. I have long wanted to know about that medium. And it was a disaster. It turned out that the class was more a friendly artist gathering as all were accomplished so of course knew what they were doing. They chatted and painted as I fumbled and failed and hid what I did. The instructor was chatting with everyone else but then she came to observe what I was up to. And she half-smiled, gave me poor photos of flowers– “try to copy one”–and walked away. I had paid for a real beginners’ watercolor class, per the brochure. So after an hour of no instruction, I stood up, said “I’m out” and got my pricey, full refund despite the office guy saying I’d already started so could not be refunded. No teaching about watercolors, no keeping my payment. He was glad to see me leave when I critqued the class fully.

But I sta in my car and cried, I felt so discouraged. How to begin again? Did I tell myself, “I’m not artistic enough, will never learn, I’ll waste time and money if I take another class”…? I nearly vowed to give up making my own art ever again.

One day six months later while at another art store (I buy alot for twin 6 year old granddaughters)–I thought hard as I walked about. I fingered gorgeous watercolors, studied paper types and weights, checked out the large variety of brushes and other fascinating tools of painting. I just could not see it, me working on a large watercolor paper pad, sitting inside or outside becoming deep into creating–it was another silly fantasy. I once painted big but no more, and I was not at all good at realistic painting of very tiny flowers or bugs, and small, exacting faces.

But my heart told me different as I meandered, when I stopped, riveted by a growing excitement. The missing key might be to start smaller, not bigger…I wanted to dab and streak paint over any waiting surface again, to draw lines across open spaces. So how to begin differently? Right in front of me on a top shelf were stacked several small notebooks–little journals for art making. I reached for one that was 3″ x5″ and opened the test copy. The binding was smooth and strong, the paper just right. I flagged a saleswoman; she agreed it would be fine for ink drawing and watercolor. The empty pages looked back at me and suddenly I could see it: vivid, tender paint colors spreading over fine, black-inked lines, forms taking shape, new places appearing and then plants and people… Which I once drew rudimentarily, and more porrly with no practice. No matter those facts, I felt such deep relief and happiness spread through my body and being it felt like I had been struck with a bolt of inspiration from above.

I took a packaged sketch journal–blush pink, why not?– into my hands, then chose various fine-tipped drawing pens and a new, very small, great quality watercolor set. Just for me this time. It was like holding a key that would open the lid on a chest of treasure.

It hit me: stories! It was all stories. But without words. Making things happen with colors and shapes. My hands. My desire. It had taken me a lifetime to find the courage to find a way back.

I have been painting and drawing in my small, private (not for others’ eyes) journal of art since 10/21/25. I get it out three times a week, sometimes more or less. It soothes and reawakens me; it frees and uplifts, tells me things I didn’t know before I put pen and paint to paper. I try to answer that call– like a sweet, insistent bell– when it occurs, because this is an adventure I’ve been waiting to return to since my mid-20s. Ever since my stacked paintings were ruined in a stormy flood–it invaded the first floor of a carriage house shared with my two little children after that first divorce. (From the sculptor, who I was never quite liked my paintings.)

These days I may be a barely mediocre artist. I suppose it depends on who you ask, and I’m not taking opinions right now. I might stay mediocre, not bad, not so good, though I do know that practice makes perfect. Still, I’m not looking for perfection at this time. I want the real, creative, freeing experience. The way I felt when figure skating without worry of competing. Or playing my cello alone in the auditorium before rehearsal, or my hands at the baby grand piano with no one to tell me I was ignorant of formal composition even as I fell into the music. Of singing for the glory and pleasure of it. And painting huge canvasses, attuned to the flow.

Just like when I was younger, I believe both flourishing and gratefulness are what matters. I’ve been wrung out by life’s terrible things, lived dangerously, suffered the price. (Most of us have.) And ever present was the pull of life’s hallowed energy with curious transformations. The creative spark limning darkness. I kept eyes, heart and mind open. And I still believe in the saving grace of creating.

It was never meant to be about “making the grade” but being fully human–we have minds and spirits, not just fancy bodies with impulses. And about being set free from whatever removes us from the dynamic design: to live here, ever forward, not backward among phantoms. Creative action brings me close to richer moments with God; it resonates with who I am, a small and unique being in an interconnected multi-universe. I am alive in the expansive design of which we add all a part.

Mediocrity is not a thing when you choose to live with open arms. You cannot fail if you give yourself to whatever you care about and get done. No matter how absurd it may seem, I believe it is so. Just do what you love most and likely progress will occur. The rest of the world may or may not care, but there are those who do. Best and worst are just words, adding meaning or not. But they are not the essence of one’s true life.

I started this day re-reading a book by the French priest and mystic, a philosopher, teacher and scientist/palentologist: Pierre Teilhard de Chardin’s Hymn of the Universe. The copy is from 1978, when I bought it at 28. It reminded me that matter and spirit are imbued with numinosity, that ineffable, changing mystery, and of Spirit right here in this world. Matter that is dense with life. A visible God in nature and others. It is evident in science, in us, yet moves closer from beyond our ken, as well. This is what drives me to live honestly, to be more of who I was meant to be: to find God in me and myself in God (to paraphrase the wondrous Mother Teresa).

And though all that may not seem germane to this essay, it is part of my growing rejection of labels and grades. It seems irrelevant to ever be judged mediocre, less than average, above average. As a creative human what does that mean? We all are transformers, at heart–we are designed that way. I’ve been in fearful anticipation of a panel’s negative determinations, and facing the applause of being lauded for being more signified by medals and all. I’ve got this greater need to embrace the thrill and delights of simple daily creating, the courage to accept my mistakes and attendant sorrows, and in the end understand it all comes out okay. Especially if I stay true and kindly in what I do.

Doing well is fine; living well is better–if we must measure it. I’m up for it all.

Can’t run like a pro? Can’t crochet like your grandmother? Never tried to play the guitar? No talent for growing things? Try it, anyway. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Jump in, figure it out, find the lessons and sheer pleasure in it. I did try gardening and found my way–I am excited for spring. I will have flowers again; so will you. And I’ll be filling up with their beauty, even drawing and painting a few. I bought a second sketch journal and more pens; I won’t run out any time soon.