A Wabi-Sabi: A Way to View Imperfections

I am a journal keeper. Sometimes I’ll jot down a word or phrase that I think is neat. Recently, I had a few ideas about writing an article on the humor of forgetfulness in aging. I thought I might find something that relates to this in my journal. There it was: wabi-sabi. It’s the Japanese art of finding beauty in all things imperfect. As my anonymous quotation explains, wabi-sabi is the ability to find beauty and profundity in nature and to accept the natural cycle of growth, decay and death. It embraces liver spots, rust, and frayed edges and the march of time they represent. After reading this in my journal, I realized, “Carole, you’re a wabi-sabi, you’re imperfect, aged, and wrinkled.” If you don’t take this aging thing so seriously, you should be able to find the beauty in your forgetfulness.” I did just that. Wabi-sabi offered me a new way to see imperfections.

One of the first things I found out in retirement is that I am imperfect in remembering things. I don’t always remember names of things or names of people. Thus, I went to the library and found a book (can’t remember the name) on associating names of people with something. For example, I could associate Mary with my mother’s name, Mary; Audrey with the cowboy Gene Autry (I just have to remember to associate with Autry’s last name); Lester with Listerine and Rudolph with the red-nose reindeer. Simple.

Once, only once, that I recall — didn’t even recognize my own daughter;, when and it wasn’t even Halloween, when she would be trick or treating. My husband and I were going to have lunch at a diner near my hometown. I like to look around in these eating places just in case I’d see one of my old classmates. In the diner, my hubby and I followed the hostess to our seats. As we walked I checked out all the booths for a familiar face. After passing the third booth, my husband called, “Carole, you just passed your own daughter. How could you not remember her?” I walked back and looked again. This time I recognized her as one of my own.

Something came up at my “Y” exercise class one day. Susie , whose name I know, asked me where I lived. I said, “Cedar Crest” and quickly corrected myself, “No that’s a street near me. Wait. I know the number. It’s 512.” Within three seconds I recalled the street name. I thought that was rather good to get it within three seconds. On the drive home, I was actually glad Susie asked me where I lived so I could get home again, while it was still fresh in my memory.

There are times I lose words for a thing that I know. I assumed my daughter knew some things about sewing when I was relating to her, “With all you girls, I must have hemmed at least fifty dresses before you were allowed to wear jeans to school. And I always used a ……. I know the word. Wait, it will come.”

My daughter tried to help, “Needle?” At that point, I had no idea if the word I wanted had somehow slipped down into my big toe and stuck there. Or did it go into the air and land on a tree branch? But, I knew, like a boomerang, it would come to me within a few seconds or hours later. It came back that night. It was a thimble. If only I had associated thimble with my one grandchild, who has the neatest dimple.

I not only lose words, but I’ve already lost my car at the mall. It really wasn’t my fault. You see, when I park my car I look around to see if there are A,B, C signs, or something unusual, to pin point where my car is when I come back. After being in the store for at least one hour, up and down the escalator, I was finally finished. I knew the exact spot I entered the store and headed out. Once outside, I noticed someone had made changes to the parking lot. For one thing it was smaller. How anyone could accomplish such a feat in the short time I was shopping was beyond me. I walked up and down every single row and couldn’t find my car. I was just about ready to go inside the store and call security, to report my car was stolen. Luckily, on the last row, I noticed a stone fence that I hadn’t seen before. I walked over and peered over the wall when “what to my wondering eyes should appear” but my car. I still say it wasn’t my fault, that a store has two levels, and then doesn’t’ put up a sign saying “BEWARE YOU ARE LEAVING ON THE SECOND LEVEL!”