I surround myself with chipped pottery, warbly old bowls, weathered wood.
Preferred imperfections in my home and belongings.
I smile deeply at the differences. Quirky. Odd folk I meet. And like them best of all.
Yet I beat myself up when I am not perfect.
Wife. Mother. Friend.
Like whipping wind until I cannot stand.
Falling into the couch or bed. Hours. Days.
Whirling in my thoughts. Penetrating my dreams.
Why did I say that. Didn't do that. Did that. Forgot that. Look like this.
Ick who's withering hands are stringing my pretty beads?
Wabi Sabi is the Japanese art of appreciating the beauty in the naturally imperfect world.
Imperfect. Impermanent. Incomplete.
Simplicity. Worn beauty of age.
Mindset. Being. Feeling.
Not messy or disrespectful imperfection. Imperfect beauty in it's natural state.
Burl bowls, chipped redware, old cupboards, crafted by hand, roadside stands, worn paint, heirloom vegetables, stone walls.
Cherished with cleanliness and placement.
Thinning here, thickening there, lips that don't stop or know where to start, dried out brain.
Healthy choices, Heartspeak. Hand Cream.
My Wabi Sabi world.
In my longing to make things better and to fix what I think is broken.
With pure intentions from the depths of my heart
I over tape and glue. Plaster and paste.
Making what is naturally perfect a sticky mess.
Seeing clearly now.
Not just accepting.
Cradling with grace and gratitude.