He sits at the keys every day, pounding out the same old notes. His fingers move swiftly over the ivories, stopping to pause only when the note is unfamiliar or someone calls his name.
My Sombrero over and over and over again.
His focus is laser-sharp, his eyes glued to the notes on the page. He wants to get it right every time.
Whoever came up with “practice makes perfect” didn’t have a clue. Practice doesn’t make perfect; practice makes strong fingers, calloused hands, taut muscles. Practice of anything strengthens that skill.
There is no promise of perfect – perfection implies a finish, no more to learn, void of mistakes.
And what if what we practice actually hurts us?
Practice gossip and grow lost friendship. Practice hate and grow bitterness. Practice judgement and grow isolation.
But the flip side of that is such a beautiful picture –
Practice acceptance and grow your circle. Practice setting the table for more and grow the feast. Practice promises kept and grow secure friendships.
Try trading “practice makes perfect” for “practice makes progress”. Take the next step with an eye on how far you’ve come, how much you’ve loved, how often you’ve given. Don’t stop practicing the good and holy and honest. Let go of some of the sour notes.
Keep your eyes on the notes to the song you’re writing. I promise it will make for a glorious melody.
I’m linking up today over at Five Minute Friday. Won’t you join me?