It ain’t pretty, but to me it’s perfect.

Last week I sewed a tree costume like a samurai, and for that I have my friend Mike and blindfolded painting to thank.

About a year ago I helped Mike practice for his final test to become an Integral Coach, a kind of personal coach that focuses on the whole individual – mind, body and spirit (swiped that right from your website, Whitey).  I was happy to be a guinea pig for him, as I’ve wanted and tried to work out the kinks in my self-confidence and jump-start a new approach toward professional and personal fulfillment for many years.  The practice session involved about an hourlong phone call where we talked about, among other things, my professional goals and what I think is hampering me from reaching them.  One obstacle was circumstantial – I need the steady income that certain writing and editing projects brings, so even if the work is not personally fulfilling, I feel compelled to keep doing it.  But an even larger obstacle was my self-doubt, tied in part to a sometimes debilitating amount of perfectionism. If I cannot guarantee success, I am often paralyzed from trying something new.

From that practice session, he came up with a Coaching Offer that included two metaphors, the first to illustrate my Current Way of being, and the second to illustrate my New Way — the kind of writer and person I’d like to be. And he nailed it.

I’m sure some think this all sounds like a lot of New Age mumbo-jumbo; frankly I wasn’t sure what to expect out of it. I hoped that, in addition to helping him pass his final test, whatever insight he offered might give me the confidence to pitch larger magazines. I didn’t realize it would help me find the joy in sewing a costume for a 5-year-old.

According to Mike, my Current Way was that of The Steady Free Throw Shooter. I’m very good at what I do, I can make basket after basket. Every time the ball is bounced to me, I feel compelled to take the shot. I am consistent, dependable and confident in the solitary skill I have refined.  I have a deep fear and aversion to letting people down, to missing a shot. And I am scared to step off the line and try something riskier.

Yep.

By contrast, my New Way was that of the Soulful Samurai, At Peace. (I liked the sound of that right away. Peaceful badass? Sign me up.)  The Soulful Samurai measures success by the quality of her action, regardless of the outcome. She practices deep, authentic, perfect expression in everything that she does. She has limitless confidence in her abilities. I wanted to be this Soulful Samurai; she sounded like a dream.

That was the end result of our practice session. I wished Mike good luck and spent a good bit of time studying the notes he’d given me regarding those metaphors. He went on to pass his final test and become certified as an Integral Coach. And then he did an amazing thing: He offered to continue our sessions, completely free of charge, to see if he could help me find that Soulful Samurai.  I was terrified and excited.

Over the next several months Mike gave me exercises – some physical, some artistic, some mental – to challenge my perspective, hone my confidence, and develop strength, courage, and a deeper connection to my soul.  Basically, to find where I feel most complete, and to kick to the curb anything that is keeping me from reaching that place.

I will spare you all the details of those exercises, except one:  Blind Painting.  This was an exercise he gave me after realizing the first artistic challenge he wanted me to try might be too difficult for me. He had asked me to spend some time each week practicing an “expressive art” – poetry, calligraphy, flower arranging, even finger painting. So I wrote some poems – and then critiqued them harshly. I searched in vain for my old calligraphy pen set; I couldn’t do anything free-form without the letter key to tell me whether or not I was doing it right.  I tried finger-painting with my kids but was distracted by their constant questions and my own insistence that my painting should look like something. “I’m just not an artist,” was my constant complaint.

But it wasn’t about the art; it was about the effort. So he blindfolded me. He told me to get a shirt box, paper, paints, brushes and a blindfold. I’d wait until everyone was in bed, then get out my shirt box, which I kept closed and stashed away at the top of the kids’ toy closet. I’d spread out the paint, brushes and a clean sheet of paper in front of me on the counter, then blindfold myself. After waiting a minute or so to clear my mind, I’d open the box, put the new piece of paper inside, feel around for a brush, dip it in paint, and start painting.

I felt silly of course, and I’m sure I looked downright ridiculous. But Mike was right:  Without being able to see my creation – or anything else – I could focus on the quality of my effort, on my unwavering focus, on painting how I felt.  I had no way of pausing to check my email, fetch something for one of my kids, answer a question, or frown at my work.

When I felt finished, I’d close the box before taking off the blindfold.  I never once opened that box to look at the growing stack of paintings inside.

Fast-forward many months to late September, the first time Kostyn told me he wanted to be a tree for Halloween. I knew there was no way a ready-made tree costume existed. I thought about his newfound fascination with superheroes and was sure he’d change his mind and want to be Batman or Superman. But he didn’t waver from his wish. And he was specific. “I want to be an evergreen tree.” Not a Christmas tree, not a maple, a regular old evergreen.  And every time he said it the first thing I thought was, “I can’t sew.”  Sewing is not something I’m good at. When a button falls off something, I hand it to Chris; I always have.

Sewing is not a free throw shot that I take.

But I’m his mom, and I wanted to make him happy. After a few weeks of brainstorming and a trip to the craft store, I got to work. Every time I sat down to sew or cut or glue, I said aloud some manner of, “I don’t want to do this, I’m no good at this, I wish someone else could do it.” That Free Throw Shooter needed to make excuses for a possible missed shot before she even stood at the line.

But between you and me, deep down inside I was excited. So I tried to focus on that. The only way I could really do so was to blindfold myself in my mind (not in real life, come on we’re dealing with needles, people). That way I couldn’t focus on how imperfect it was, only on how perfect my effort was.

Samurai.

I struggled mightily with every first stitch, and with every last knot. I asked for help and advice and sympathy and positive feedback along the way. I knew that was the Free Throw Shooter talking, the one who isn’t used to there not being a direct shot in front of her. But in the moment, I stitched like a Soulful Samurai, completely focused, relaxed, confident. I knew the stitches weren’t straight or even or anything nearing professional, but I didn’t care. I was making a tree! In and through and up and over, in and through and up and over, I created something that made my little boy light up.

What would probably take a crafty seamstress an hour or two took me over a week.  But in my defense, I was blindfolded.

My happy evergreen.