A Splat on the Windshield

The recent rains have been coming and going at shortly spaced intervals, so it wasn’t worth washing the car until it was going to remain clear for a while—or at least that’s the excuse I used to justify my unwashed vehicle. But finally, the sun came out and the dirt got washed off, and I rediscovered that pleasant satisfaction that comes from seeing things looking clean and nice. So it was with some frustration that, as I was driving along the freeway a day or so later, something splatted onto my window and marred my otherwise clear view.

It was, of course, directly in my line of vision. An entire windshield to hit, and this offending splat—which had to be all of an eighth of an inch across—landed at exactly eye-level in the middle of my view at that one point that was making my eyes cross slightly as my brain fought to focus on the spot rather than the road ahead. Besides that, and more importantly, it was ruining my otherwise perfectly clean window. Well, that obviously wouldn’t do, so I gave it a quick blast of wiper fluid and flipped on the windshield wipers—and instead of washing off neatly, it smeared into an inch-wide swoosh that followed the entire arc of the blades. I applied more water—the smear grew wider. What was it that hit my windshield? I held the button down, determined to rid my once clean window of what was quickly becoming a gigantic, smeary mess.

Finally, the area cleared, but not before I’d nearly emptied the fluid reservoir to make sure that every last trace was gone. By now my windshield had water streaming down from the top where the blades can’t reach, and the windows on the doors were rapidly gathering water trails as the excess blew back. I arrived at my destination, parked the car and took care of a quick errand. When I returned, I noted that the water was no longer running down my windshield because it had dried and made hundreds of spots all over the glass. For just an instant I contemplated rewashing the windows to make them pristine once again. Then sanity reasserted itself and I accepted the fact that worrying about it was just plain silly. And that brought to mind a conversation I’d had just a few days before.

I’ve recently returned to the local community college for a painting class. One of the unexpected pleasures has been the opportunity to chat with the other students (who are all young enough to be my children). During one of those exchanges, one young woman was bemoaning the fact that she didn’t think her painting was good enough. Please understand that this painting we’d all just completed was a study in black and white containing a sphere, a cube, a cylinder, a cone, and a gray-scale along the side of the picture that changed gradually in ten percent increments from pure white to pure black. Not exactly the kind of thing that you hope to hang on a wall. While I found it fascinating that all the paintings looked so different and unique—she was making herself miserable over what she had produced. She ended her comments with the startling pronouncement, “I just can’t compete with you.”

“It’s not a competition,” I said, “it’s an art class.”

“Well, I know, but I’m a perfectionist,” she responded.

I explained that being a perfectionist is fine, but maybe not in all things. That it’s good to strive for excellence, but that maybe she needed to pick her battles and relax and enjoy it since art is supposed to be fun. She looked dubious. Maybe that’s easier for me to say since I’m not worrying about grades and transferring to another college. But still, it’s art and it should be fun. I pointed out that it’s important to give it our best shot, but reminded her that what we were doing was not going to solve world hunger, nor was it going to bring peace in the Middle East. It probably wasn’t even going to bring a speedier end to the recession.

She smiled and nodded and agreed. Then she added that she was really upset that it didn’t look exactly like the items in the setup—emphasis on “exactly.” I smiled and nodded back at her and told her to take a photography class next time if that’s what she wants. She looked surprised and then started to laugh. Our conversations continue, but she seems less harsh with herself and her current painting.

So here I was with a windshield full of water spots, and I realized this is another one of those little life-lesson reminders. We can do what we’re able to do to make things just the way we want them, and we can fool ourselves into thinking that we’re in control, but we have to expect that sooner or later something may come along and splat all over it. And often, as we try to fix it up and make it better because it isn’t part of our “perfect plan,” the little splat becomes a smeary blob and gets bigger and uglier and messier. All in the name of being in control.

So we really have a choice. We can make ourselves crazy over every little thing that doesn’t go exactly according to plan (and risk making a bigger mess), or we can take a deep breath and decide whether or not it’s truly important. And if it isn’t, then we can relax and let it go.

My windshield still has water spots and some other unidentified substance that appeared mysteriously. It’s out of reach of the wipers.

I’m hoping for rain.