Some words are so much fun to say, it almost doesn’t matter what they mean. A word like wabi-sabi. It sounds like a hot sauce or something Dr. Seuss might have made up, a small beast with six short legs, a long neck, a perfectly round bald head, and a smiling face. A wabi-sabi.
Well, that’s not what it means.
Furthermore, it absolutely does matter what a word means.
Fascinated and curious, I turned
on my computer to learn what AI had to tell me about wabi-sabi. Here’s what I
found: “Wabi-sabi is a Japanese philosophy centered on finding beauty in
imperfection, impermanence, and incompleteness, viewing the natural cycle of
growth and decay as inherently beautiful, contrasting with Western ideals of
flawlessness. It’s an aesthetic appreciating simplicity, modesty, asymmetry,
and the marks of age and wear….” It is expressed in many Japanese arts, such as
tea ceremonies, pottery, and gardens. It accepts life’s transient nature.
I’ve been pondering this concept
all week. I’m attracted to it because it seems so grace-filled. So merciful. My
life is full of imperfections, yet I long for beauty. Maybe beauty lives closer
to me than I think.
I have two small things I value
highly because of the memories associated with them. (I'll call them Thing 1 and Thing 2, in honor of Dr. Seuss.) Thing 1 is a blue and white
cup from Russia—not a tourist treasure, but from the kind of dishes Russians
use in their homes. I’ve always been drawn to Russia, primarily because of her
literature and music, and the brief two weeks I spent there only increased my
admiration for the culture and the people. If one can love a thing, I love that
Russian cup.
I also love an amethyst crystal I
gave to Hal for his birthday, Thing 2. It’s a Bolivian gem, native to the land where we
lived for many years. It’s perfect.
Or it was perfect. Both the cup and the crystal have suffered mishaps. The base of the cup is chipped. And the top of the crystal was damaged in a fall. It no longer comes to a perfect point. I’ve felt really bad that both these precious things have become flawed. I’ve even considered throwing them out.
I’m changing my mind. I’ll keep
them around and try to let their imperfections make them more precious to me.
Is that silly? Maybe. Maybe not.
This reminds me of a favorite poem
by American poet Jarod Anderson entitled “Flawless.”
Flawless
Things that are perfect
are dead things.
Empty things.
A silence beyond change or challenge.
An endpoint.
A blank page.
You are a wonderfully messy thing.
An impossible thing made of salt
and rainwater.
Meat and electricity.
A dream with teeth.
You’re too good for perfection.
I’m thinking it would be good to
apply the philosophy of wabi-sabi to the process of aging. Sometimes I’m almost
obsessed by my imperfections in this time of life—the spots on my hands,
wrinkles, the slight stoop of my shoulders, the flattening out of some parts of
my anatomy and the bulging of other parts. Not to mention the crooked nose I’ve
had since childhood. Very imperfect. It’s not pretty. My granddaughters are
pretty; Grandma isn’t.
Not only the physical trials of
growing older, but the mental, social, even familiar changes all seem to spell
gradual decay and loss.
Could it be I’ve got it wrong?
Have I unconsciously bought into the values of my Western culture? Do I need to
change my brain patterns so I can see myself and others as God sees us? Could I
look at these old hands with affection, remembering all the things God has done
using them? Can I laugh affectionately when I forget names or when the right
word doesn’t instantly come to mind?
Can I appreciate the beauty of the
imperfections that come with aging, knowing that someday I’ll have a new body
and a renewed brain? Can I live now with a wabi-sabi attitude?
Yes, I think I can; at least I can
begin walking in that direction. And maybe you can too.
Remember, we’re too good for
perfection.
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