Wabi-sabi

Dec 25 2017

The Japanese have a word

for the beauty to be found

in imperfection;

its artlessness,

its unaffected truth.

Because it's the needy

who bring out our best,

the cracks

that let in the light.

Because symmetry is boring,

and perfection

leaves nothing to chance.

Because if DNA were infallible,

we would still be single-celled creatures

in a warm primordial sea.

And because of all the mistakes

I couldn't help but make

to bother keeping score,

the many more

I will.

The curious object

odd, and flawed, and homely

I circle, and circle again,

compelled to observe

from every angle possible.

The broken, the quirky, the hurting

that draw me in,

the outrageous character

I cannot resist.

Like the stunted tree

that has struggled to grow

in parched depleted soil,

its rings compressed

wood dense

twisted branches bent,

I find myself circling

and circling again.

So much to see

in its imperfection;

the singular beauty

of nature's testing

in every crook, and burr, and break,

each scarred and gnarled limb.

There is the blank slate

of a newborn babe

cooing in its cradle.

While the stories written

in the parchment skin, and haggard face

of the old man on his deathbed

show the worth

of a consequential life.

How suffering, overcome

becomes us.

How transcendence emerges

beneath the glossy surface

we so artfully construct.