The priceless gifts of an unorganized lawn tool collection, embedded kitchen crumbs and saggy triceps

I'm so selfless I know.

Recently I read the book The Art of Gathering by Priya Parker.

It’s a field guide on how to be a good host (be the boss! be extra!)

As I was reading I was filled with all sorts of visions of the fun parties and game nights in my future now that I am a hosting expert.

Just one little thing I forgot in all my visioning: kind of I hate hosting.

It stresses me out.

Sometimes I get real self-congratulatory thinking I’ve ended things for good with my ex-boyfriend perfectionism.

But all it takes is hosting something, at my house, with other people, and like clockwork who should come a-knocking on my door?

That sneaky old bastard perfectionism.

And then like a chump I let him back in. Because maybe I could use his motivation?

Perfectionism puts this fun story in my head that all my friend’s house are cleaner and more updated than mine, and they can easily fit in all their yard work on the weekends like the normal, upstanding citizens that they are.

These stories like to throw a little parade in my head when I want to host something.

Last week I wrote about the under-rated practice of writing ourselves permission slips.

One of those permission slips went like this,

“Celeste hereby has permission to not just tolerate but celebrate her departure from social norms (out of date kitchen, extra 15 pounds, missing her kids soccer games) - to see these deviations as a grand favor to her peers to give them permission to celebrate their own societal deviations.

Today’s essay/poem is basically a zoom in and expansion of that permission slip.

Happy to report- I’ve given myself permission to throw an imperfect dinner party.

As I wrote that permission slip, I envisioned my guests coming to the party one by one and as they come in, I greet them each with a gift. In the words of Brene Brown, a gift of my own imperfection.

Because when people host me, truly they do me no favors by perfectly cleaning their house. That just makes me feel pressure to do the same. But when others display their own imperfection - it is a most cherished gift to me (bonus points if it comes without an apology!).

So maybe…….. maybe my imperfections can also be a gift.

Dinner Party Gifts
They arrive one by one
through the back gate

and to each guest
I offer a gift
wrapped a little haphazardly perhaps
but gifts from the heart nonetheless

To Emily
I gift my messy lawn tools
sticking up at all different angles
in a container not meant for rakes and shovels-
not hidden in the garage
but out on proud display conveniently
on the back porch
for easy access.

Emily with this gift
may you know you have permission
to create a household of convenience and easy access
rather than aesthetic perfection
and that you need not hide your humanness.

To Margaret
I gift you my extra 15 pounds-
my spare tire, dimpled upper thighs, double chin and saggy triceps.

Margaret with this gift 
may you free yourself-
if only an ounce
away from the body prison created for women.
You know the one-
the cage that says we should be ashamed and embarrassed if we gain 10 pounds-
we must then heighten exercise and cut sweets.
May you give yourself permission to unapologetically display your body
to the world with pride smack in the midst of imperfection.

To Ann
I gift the east section of my lawn-
unmowed, dandelions thriving,
the former owner's once perfectly curated flower bed
now overgrown with green grass, weeds, brown stalks, a failing to thrive grapevine flirting with death, last year's leaves, and probably a hidden candy wrapper or two curtesy of my sneaky toddler. 

Ann with this gift
may you release your own internal pressure valve
to keep a curated lawn free of weeds.
May you allow your own wildness the freedom to flourish
and be witnessed without apology.

To Jane
I gift my kitchen floor.
It doesn't look like it, but I did sweep and mop it.
You see we experimented four years ago
with painting this floor ourselves
to cover up the outdated linoleum,
but we chose the two worst colors for showing dirt and imperfections-
white and black
(there's a metaphor there)
and now the white stripes are yellow,
the high traffic areas are greyish/brownish
and certain crumbs are somehow embedded in.

Jane with this gift
may you give yourself permission
to be out of date, out of style and
may you find humor in your attempts at style- 
allowing your efforts to be slightly ridiculous.
May you know crumbs and dirt in your house 
are not a reflection of you.

To all my guests and myself-
may we all loosen the perfection tether
if only an inch or so
until we see goodness and value in the display 
of our uncurated, imperfect selves.

And may we then throw a most imperfect dinner party.

The gift of my east lawn to Ann (name changed)

The gift to Jane- my very imperfect kitchen floor

Tell me about your relationship with hosting- does it stress you out? Do you feel the clean house pressure? What gift can you offer the next person to come over?