Bonfire of the Vanities

A bonfire of the vanities (Italian: falò delle vanità) is a burning of objects condemned by religious authorities as occasions of sin.

This will be vague, because the details are not worth sharing. Yet, I think (hope) that I will feel better if I write about it. 

Once upon a time, there was a thing (an ongoing activity) that I always aspired to do. I tried very hard, I thought, to do that. And I thought that I did a good job. Despite hardships, obstacles, I continued to give it what I thought were my best efforts. I was self-satisfied. I didn't talk about my success at this effort, because it was a private effort, but I was nevertheless, secretly proud of myself. Ah, vanity. 

Pride: one of the seven deadly sins. 

Pride goes before a fall.

I learned recently that, although I thought I was being successful at doing the thing (according to my standards), I had not, in fact, met standards that were in fact critical to the job at hand. I had been painting with primarily two colors, and had been expected to paint consistently with three colors. There was an entire part of the rubric that I had not realized was important; my work-product, so to speak, was disappointingly inadequate. And had been, for ages. And I had smugly, vainly, continued to do a shoddy, incomplete and unsatisfactory job, for ages. I did not know. No one told me, until now. 

It was an earth-shattering, terrible realization. 

I have tried to move forward since then. It has been hard. Everything rings hollow. I continue to paint with my two colors, but the motions seem fruitless and insufficient now. I add the third color here and there, as I have done on occasion, and I resent that third color's importance and am bitter about my lack of knowledge about its importance before it seemed Too Late. I do not trust my own instincts any more. I am almost unbearably sad. 

Vanity number two: thinking that I was strong enough, self-sufficient enough, that nothing could break my heart. 

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It all seems quite melodramatic as I type it out like this. I don't mean for it to be that way. It is hard, as an adult, to move through life with so little positive feedback -- we don't get gold stars for accomplishing things any more -- and simultaneously try to tackle private failures while mustering a public brave face. 

Time heals all wounds. Or, at least, attenuates the impact of a blow enough so that we can correct our course and move forward again. 

At this point, all I really want is to feel as though I have managed to be a good human being.  A good mother, a good wife, a good friend, a good sister, a good daughter. I am doing the best I can.  Will it be enough, in the end?  

My epitaph should read: I tried.