Hunting all over for the right puzzle piece. The one with just a little bit of red sign on it, mostly green grass, and some yellow leaves from that tree behind the building. It needs to go in that hole. That hole right there. The hole that's been bugging me for a good while now, gaping wide in that area of the puzzle, taunting me. Everything else around it, done. Pretty. Smooth. Fitting. Complete.
Ah, I see it! There's that booger! The renegade piece.
Then that feeling of lightly punching the booger into its place. The feeling that makes you want to go, "BOOYAH! Behold. I am the conqueror."
I love puzzles. Not the stupid kind - the kind that are a gajillion pieces and are a low quality, boring photograph of a yellow puppy. On a blue background. So that means all your pieces are either yellow fur or sea of nothingness. Who would ever...? No way, man.
The Wysocki puzzles are the only ones worth any effort. Americana artwork. Colorful old-timey signs, storefronts, interesting antique things, horses and carriages, and cute little people on cobblestone streets. Most every piece gives you a clue to its home if you study it closely enough. And I always want to go there when I'm working on them. I want to jump in there and be the little happy people on the streets.
To be able to bring order out of chaos, to bring perfection out of brokenness, to make everything fit together like it should in the end. Oh, Wysocki puzzles, how I love thee...
But what happens when you spend hours on a 1000-piece Wysocki, and you're helped occasionally by children who like to work on the easy signage but nothing else, and when you're helped zero by your husband who would rather have a root canal, and when all the pieces at the end are falling into place - bam, bam, bam - and when all the positive chemicals are firing in your brain because you are SO almost there - and then...
Don't even pretend like you don't see that gaping hole. The checkerboard piece is nowhere to be found in my house. Not under the table, the curtains, or the chairs. It could very well be in baby's digestive tract at this point. But it's definitely gone forever, marring the completed picture. So that really irks me. 999 pieces is nice, but 1000 would be extraordinarily better because the puzzle would be whole. Instead, the hole seemingly prevents wholeness.
Well, you know what?
Yes, there's a hole in my puzzle, and I don't mind pointing it out. It's down there in the lower left corner. The picture isn't perfect. Not all of my i's are dotted, and not all of my t's are crossed. Maybe they used to be. Maybe I only thought they were. The metaphor looms large. Lots to learn about this. More to come.