The Wabi-Sabi Life

"The notion is called Wabi-Sabi life, like the cherry blossom, it is beautiful because of its impermanence, not in spite of it, more exquisite for the inevitability of loss."

-- Peggy Orenstein

We don't consider our impermanence too often...unless we are forced to.

Having it thrust upon us.

Third graders virtually never do.

About a month ago I saw this article

on Katrina Kennison's Facebook page.

It startled me. 

It wowed me.

It made me see everything that was laying on the ground outside as an object of beauty

a piece of a puzzle

a gift.

An artist named Ja Soon Kim who lives in New Mexico 

collects things...

leaves, petals, twigs, stones, crabapples, feathers, sea shells

and carefully, 
mindfully, 
intentionally 

selects a spot on a square of white or black

and creates art

Exhibit A

These happen to be little red leaves...but it could be

Exhibit B

...bark.

These works of art of hers aren't glued down or shellacked or in some way made permanent.

She takes a photo.

She posts it to Instagram.

She moves on...

and leaves the rest of us wanting more...

pondering about what else could be selected so carefully and placed so meticulously.

Exhibit C

Fallen crabapples.

*****

When I saw her work, I wanted to see what third graders might think.

I wanted to take them on a walk and watch them look at the discards of our natural world and ponder a white space and where it might find a place.

I wondered if they would think it was weird...

or dumb...

or pointless...

I wondered if they could possibly understand impermanence.

Savor the fleeting.

Turns out they could.

I've done art with many classes of many ages over many years.

For me, this lesson was very likely my most successful.

They understood.

They made the most of their walk...their freedom to pick and choose 

and delight in something nature no longer needed.

When it came time to place the objects, none wanted to glue it down.

Maybe the knowledge that there was a photo to commemorate it helped.

They were eager to design and savor and click a photo and start again.

Here is a sampling of their designs...

Exhibit A

 Kate: "In everything there is a swirl of light."

Exhibit B

Kerrigan: "Every day you bloom to be a new person."

Exhibit C

Lauren: "Everything is flowerful."

There is a whimsy, a lightness, a generosity in their quotes...

the impermanence is beautiful and they relish it.

Maybe it's their distance from big loss.

Maybe it's their childish wonder.

Maybe it's the purity and grace of childhood.

Exhibit D

Gabby: "Nothing lasts forever."

And Gabby states it so clearly, so simply, that it gives me pause.

Those dandelion fluffs already disintegrating...

so fragile that with any movement, a seed is lost.

She knows what we all know...time is passing...things fall apart...people must leave...
but she stops.
She creates.
She leaves her mark.

We all must.
We are called to create.
To love.
To sing, dance, write, wonder, experiment...
connect.

And from all of these beautiful impermanent moments maybe that's what matters most.

I do know it's a Wabi-Sabi life and somehow having a name for it helps.

Thank you Ja Soon Kim.

Thank you third graders.
Thank you for spotting the beauty in the gutter...
in the cracks and crevices...
in the hidden places.

Just look what you did.

Here, for good measure, is Caroline's...Exhibit  E

Her quote: "You wish it, you want it, you make it happen."

Lastly, my darling niece Lizzy reminds us of what really matters...

Exhibit F

Lizzy: "Smile."

It's a Wabi-Sabi life...there's nothing to lose (or maybe there's everything to lose)...
let's push the pause button...and smile.

You Find What You Look For

** This is my second in a series of essays for Jack, our oldest son who will be graduating from college in a few months. These are just rambling thoughts of a mother whose only gift she can think of are words. **

"Look and you will find it, what is unsought will go undetected." -- Sophocles

If I could tell you one thing that would help you on your journey it is this:
you find what you look for. 

For some reason, when I go on my quote walk-about searching for the right thing to place here, I always find it comforting to find that the Greeks had virtually the same idea all those years ago.

We're not that different.  

Those ancient Greek philosophers and you and me are pretty much on the same journey...
they just have cooler ways of saying it.

So, back to finding what you look for...or in the more Tony Robbins-esque way of saying it:

You get what you focus on.

It really is as simple as that.

I found this truth to be true in all aspects of my life but profoundly true -- powerfully, weirdly, prophetically true -- in the classroom.

The days that I made up my mind that I had the best class ever -- the most inquisitive, hard-working, clever group on the planet -- lo and behold, I did.  I found them cooperating, and answering tough questions and focusing in amazing ways.

The days that I decided my group was tough -- that they were low and difficult and energy-sucking...miraculously, they were.

It wasn't them.

It was me.

Almost every time.

I remember the day I discovered it.

I had had the most amazing morning.
My group was working hard, sticking with the tough problems and asking great questions.

Then we went to lunch.

And I had to deal with a car insurance company that didn't want to help in any meaningful way.  My insurance was going to cover nothing and I was going to have to figure out how to buy two new tires and I didn't have my paycheck coming for another week.

I came back from lunch and my group was inattentive, goofing around and making me crazy.

They could do nothing.

The more I looked, the more I found students who were causing trouble and flat out not paying attention.

It was a hard afternoon to say the least and I let them go and exhaled at my desk after school obsessing on my tires and my class and their terrible ways and like some sort of Oprah moment it all came crashing down on me.

My class hadn't changed.

MY focus is what had changed.

MY interest.

MY engagement.

MY level of connection...

and they felt it.

Like a giant mirror, they reflected it back to me perfectly.

As soon as I realized this, like some sort of mystical force, I could see it happening.

I had the awareness...which meant I had the ability to change it midstream if I wanted to.

As I've gotten older, this has become my life's mantra.

It's so obvious it can be painful at times.

Watching a parent create a self-fulfilling prophecy for their child.

Watching a teacher create the negative, non-supportive classroom that they most want to avoid.

Watching myself continue in a down-ward spiral even as I know it is happening.

Last night was a perfect example.

There we were with you at a delicious authentic, cozy Italian restaurant.

Our tastebuds were delighted in every way.

The candle light was flickering in just the right way to make the moment feel dream-like and joyful.

We were laughing and relaxed.

We leave the restaurant and Patrick gags.  He gets ready to throw up.

He throws up outside (but not terribly) and the magic is erased like a bibbity, boppity, boo swish of a wand.

It really wasn't that bad.

He really didn't make that big of a mess.

He just really needed fresh air...and a little extra room in his tummy.

He regained himself and we made it back home...but the moment was lost for me.

I decided to get angrier and angrier.

I kept reliving that one split second over and over...forgetting the million previous magical moments.

I lost the night...because I chose to focus on puke...

instead of my precious time with you...

instead of the conversation,

the laughter, 

the comfort of family,

the kindness of our driver,

the ability to take deep, cleansing breaths of fresh air.

All lost.

So, my sweet son, I beg you to see the power of your focus.
Your attention.
Your efforts.

Today, I choose to focus on the beauty, the grace and the time I get in your neck of the woods.

Like some sort of metaphor, the vomit is cleaned up and the day is sparkling and crystal clear.
What will I find?
What treasures will unfold?

I can't wait to see them...with clearer eyes.

Doing Without

So, my family and I went up to one of our favorite family spots.

I wrote about it a couple of years ago: here.

It's called Silver Lake.

It should be called Sliver Lake....since it's just a tiny spot...a sliver in the woods.

Found in 1938 by my husband's grandmother, Mary Goni.

There's a cliff made of giant boulders.

A blue lake fed entirely by snowpack.

Pine trees, crown blue jays, chipmunks, bats that feast on the bugs at dusk and osprey.

Those osprey soar all over the lake, high up, searching for their perfect tasty morsel and then scoop that unsuspecting fish right out of the lake with the most amazing no-shirk-grip talons you've ever seen.

I've seen those birds snatch up their dinner many times and each time I'm the one who's unsuspecting...

wanting to yell, at somebody, anybody, "Did you just see that??!!"

A bird plucked a fish straight out of the lake!!

Can the bird get a standing O right now?

I feel like the guy from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom...full front row seat.

Breathless.

Visiting Silver Lake takes some concessions.

You have to be able to let go of the internet.

There's no cell reception.at.all.

Off the grid.

This is both an endearing quality and a maddening one.

You have to let go of electricity.

None.

You live by candlelight and roaring fires and get in the rhythm of the natural light.

I feel both Amish and woodsy in a Little House on the Prairie way that just works.

Don't mind it at all.

You have to let go of plumbing.

You use an outhouse at Silver Lake and it's actually completely fine.

Yes, you're in a house.  Yes, there are bathrooms and showers.

But, they just don't get used.

(Exceptions are made for very young children. Read: babies. But that's it.)

But this time...this time the well was dry.

Bone dry.

Not one single drip came out of the kitchen sink faucet.

Nothin.

It was eerie.

It was comical. (at first)

It was one more rung on the doing without ladder...and I wasn't expecting it.

True. California is in a severe drought.

True. We have always brought up a couple gallons of water just to be safe.

True. People stayed at the cabin before us and that doesn't usually happen.

Spoiler alert: I should have known better.

So, my family spent four days and used six gallons of water.

Total.

Six people and a dog.

6 gallons.

I developed wizarding skills that could rival Hermione in my dishwashing ability.

We got creative...and miserly...and downright scavengerish.

I even looked at Buddy's water bowl in a whole new way...resentfully.

(and I'm one of those crazy dog-loving people!)

Funny what a little deprivation feels like.

In truth, we had plenty to drink and eat.

We stayed in a house that sleeps 12.

It's just that it had no water.

It had a gorgeous lake to swim and canoe and kayak and play in.

It had rocks to climb.

Hikes to take.

Wildlife to watch.

Best of all, we were together.all.of.us.

Candlelight monopoly games.

Talking and laughing and just being together.

Sleepy mornings and fireside s'mores.

It's truthfully a little slice of heaven...

just without any water.

So, I watched my kids deal...and no complaints came.

The eight year old loved Silver Lake with even more abandon and wonder than last time.

The 15 year old was more worried about the lack of electricity for his Iphone.

The 19 year old was freaking out about trying the gigantic huge rope swing...steeling herself for the moment of truth.

The 21 year old...well, he got it.

#welcometoadulthood

It cut our time short.

It made me focus on something that's been in my peripheral vision for quite awhile.

I've been taking water for granted for far too long.

Mostly, it made me a sister to the millions of mothers who must walk to clean drinking water 

and carry it home.

Only for me, I knew I was a car ride away from that craziness,

 a long car ride, 

but still.

So tonight I am grateful for a faucet that runs...

grateful for a hot shower...

and a flushing toilet inside my home.

But mostly I'm grateful for those five people and one dog that graced my days at Silver Lake.

Sure, we weren't expecting to play a real life game of Survivor.

Sure, our kitchenware didn't win any cleanliness awards and 

we used way too many disposable dishes.

But we were together...

unplugged and in the candlelight...

it doesn't get any better.

Thank you Mary Goni.

Those kids don't even look thirsty!
#waytoomanycokesthistrip

In Praise Of Those Pesky Dandelions In The Middle Of Our Manicured Lawns...and Other Thoughts On The Pursuit Of Pefection

Stop for a moment and take a look at this...

weed?

piece of perfection?

natural mystery?

perpetual propeller?

We pass it by every day.

Sometimes we are annoyed with the dandelion fluff as it teases us, even mocks us, as it stands so tall among the well-behaved blades of grass...daring you to try to remove it.

Good luck!

Just by the very action of plucking it, you spread its seeds...such a clever mode of transportation.

Maybe you could pick it and make a wish...transporting yourself to a more carefree chapter in time.

Or you can wish it didn't exist with its bold brand of yellow...wish it away...and there's always the option of raining down a little poison.  

Round Up Ready.

So much of our life is just like this...

trashing the miracle...

wishing it away...

trying to change it...

and pouring on the poison.

We poison ourselves with the pursuit of the perfect lawn, the perfect abs, the perfect wrinkle-free skin and see no joy in any of these gifts.

As I watch all of my neighbors kill their lawns because of our severe drought, I sure wouldn't mind a lawn or two with dandelions.

As I notice people with so many health problems, I'm pretty happy with my abs of imperfection.

As I slather on the sunscreen around my eyes, I can't help but feel those laugh lines as they get deeper and more pronounced...almost everyday I wonder what I've been laughing about.

Too many good memories.

So fun to imagine which joke, which comedy, which unexpected joy made those lines.

I must have been having one heck of a time along the way.

Perfection is a hollow pursuit.

We know this.

In our heart  of hearts we feel its truth.

Yet, still we let the illusion allow us to abort babies that we wanted but have suddenly been identified with an extra chromosome.

No longer satisfied with ordinary seeds we literally add toxins to the DNA of seeds to resist the pesticides and call them natural.  We praise genetic engineering while pouring on even more pesticides on our crops.

Not good enough.

We berate ourselves internally for our "muffin tops", our "wobbly thighs", our age spots, our gray hair...never cherishing the stories behind each of these changes.

We can't have our houses clean enough, our clothes pressed enough, our children well-behaved enough or our spouse sexy enough.

We are always asking for more.

Me included.

Which brings me back to the dandelion.

Thank God for them.

Thank God for mine.

I'm done with the poisonous lies.

Done with the fractions of truths.

Done with it.

Today, I was reintroduced to a piece of art that I learned about in 2006.

It's called "Sam and The Perfect World" by Peter Lentz.

In 2006, it won the National Portrait Gallery's Outwin Boochever Portrait Competition.

Here are Peter Lentz's words:

"My wife Rosemarie had just given birth to our son Sam, and although he appeared perfectly healthy, something, nevertheless, didn't seem right. There was an awkward silence in the room, no words of congratulation or comments about how cute he was even though he was cute. Five minutes later the diagnosis was given: Sam has Down Syndrome. "Are you going to keep him?" a nurse asked. Later that evening someone else came by to "console" us. "It's every mother's worst nightmare," she said.

Welcome to the world, Sam.

In America today, perfection is highly valued. We dump loads of chemicals on our lawns to try and get rid of every weed, every dandelion. Models and supermodels are tall, impossibly fit, their clothes stylish and wrinkle-free. Images like this tend to change our perceptions, our ideals, until finally they leave us looking around at the peeling paint on our own houses, and our less than fit bodies, and it leaves us wanting.

Perfection, I would submit, is overrated. And besides, I like dandelions.

In the painting Sam assumes the role of presenter, host, even tutor, of this most revealing examination of the civilization man has made for himself. Sam is not society's accepted definition of perfection. In spite of that, or perhaps because of that, he really does have an important message for everyone to hear."

Umm, I like dandelions too.

I'm blowing it off.

Making my wish.

Enjoying the bright, bold yellow in the thick of the green.

Perfection deserves some Round Up.

Not us...not a single one of us.

Your job today: accept and love the people in your life, 

most especially, yourself.

Thank You, Monet!

"I hope some day to meet God, 

because I want to thank Him for the flowers."  

--Robert Brault

Caroline in a field of white and purple daisies.

It's that time of year, or maybe it's because we just had earth day, or maybe it's because I spent some time at my favorite place, the beach, but I have this beautiful planet on my heart.


No matter where you walk, right now it's showing off.

Taken as I was driving because I was so so utterly blown away by the fleeting majesty.

In my heart, I want to be a photographer, if only to capture the momentary glory and remember...
to press it on my heart in hard times and times of deep sadness...
to know that right around me -- always within reach --
is this.

I have an irrational fondness for these tiny, tiny daisies that sprout up only at this time of year amid the regular grass...as if trying to blend in...and finding it an impossible task:

We have wild mustard blooming and those magical California poppies and lupines and iris and roses...always the roses.

I can't help myself.  

I'm in love...with this earth, with the non-stop wonders that surround me... 

with the everyday holiness.

It's sacred.

Found at a Brownie meeting...in between skit practice and singing campfire songs.

One of my most recent favorite books had the dad thinking aloud with his terminally ill teen-age daughter about our world:
"Sometimes it seems the universe wants to be noticed.  That's what I believe...I think the universe is improbably biased toward consciousness, that it rewards intelligence in part because the universe enjoys its elegance being observed."
The Fault In Our Stars -- John Green


I agree!
It's pretty obvious it wants to be noticed...

This happens every, single day.  No.big.deal.

How do we stop noticing??
How can we not tear up with the beauty?
I guess it's called taking it for granted...
but I want to stop and notice.
I want to fill my heart up with the every day glory that is only here in this moment, right now.

*****

I recently taught an art lesson to a bunch of 2nd graders.  We went to our local arboretum and looked at some bridges and wild flowers and just stopped and got quiet and paid attention.

I told them that Claude Monet painted the same bridge in London, the Waterloo Bridge, over 100 times.
This took my breath away.
I showed them the same bridge painted on three different days, years apart by Monet...
one was a gorgeous pinkish hue, fused with early light;
one was bluish in tone with a hint of fog...the blue, a light turquoise with some green tints as well;
one was a lavender, dusky and melancholy and utterly breath-taking.

I've been thinking so much about Monet's wisdom.

Nothing is the same.

Each day it is a bit older, a bit more lush, or broken in, a bit more overgrown or mowed or the tree limbs are bare or that flower is just springing up or the light plays a different way.

His passion for seeing the very same scene with different eyes has transformed me.

Seals and Crofts said it best:
"We may never pass this way again."

Just for today, let's notice.

Needing More Hellos

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together?  I guess that wouldn't work.  Someone would leave.  Someone always leaves.  Then we would have to say good-bye.  I hate good-byes.  I know what I need.  I need more hellos."  ~Charles M. Schulz



It's been almost two weeks since I had to kiss my firstborn good-bye. Two weeks.  That's not that much time at all and yet every time I see him on Skype, hear his voice or read his words I know it might as well be a decade.  Already so much has changed for him...navigating the world -- yes that big wide world -- pretty much on his own with three stumbling and bumbling room-mates for companionship.  He seems older already.  He seems more worldly and yes, more moments have happened in these two weeks where his eyes have been opened.  I love it and I hate it in pretty equal doses.  I'm so thrilled for him to be on this adventure and so sad for me that our adventure with him in our daily life has ended.  


He's fine.  No, actually, he's pretty great.  He likes his room-mates, he has averted disaster and he's found his way to class and to food and to friends all relatively easily.  Heck he's even done his laundry!  


I can't help but reflect on my own going away moments.  I really don't remember being fearful at all -- although I'm sure I must have been nervous.  I just remember the adrenalin.  I remember being excited and ready and so curious about all of the new places and new people and new things I was seeing and learning.  I was thrilled and hopeful.  I knew I could do it and I wanted to go for it.  I couldn't get over the people...so very different and yet so very much the same.


I remember the kindness of strangers: that first day on my bike searching for my Classics class when out of nowhere a fellow biker pointed out the correct building I couldn't figure out from my map.  I remember the professors who told good stories and recited lines of poetry from their passionate hearts.  I remember feeling super cool hanging out in the Coffeehouse after class with my 75 cent bagel and cream cheese. I remember the parties and the craziness and the FUN!  Mostly, I remember the new friends who made me laugh and think and wonder about things I'd never thought about before. 


So...when I wish for more hellos from my big guy, I just remember how many, many, many hellos he is getting everyday. It's tantalizing to think about all of the paths he is crossing and all of the experiences he is having each new day of his adventure.  


And, it makes me want to have more hellos too.  I look a little longer for those confused faces trying to figure out a new school, a new team or a new town.  I find myself reaching out...pointing out a building, a person who knows the answer or a website that might help.  


A few years ago during the summer I had an itch to go to the beach.  My baby was weeks old but that didn't stop me; the beach was calling our name.  It was a little reckless but I packed up a picnic, good sunscreen and lots of sand toys and we started our adventure.  Two freeway exits down the road I got a flat tire.  I was close enough to home that I didn't freak out but it was a very vivid, deep feeling of vulnerability and suddenly I felt like a jerk on the open road with three kids and a tiny baby. What was I thinking? 


Two young hispanic guys stopped their car in front of ours.  I told the kids to be silent and I opened my window.  One of them offered: "I'm a mechanic, I know how to change a tire.  I'd like to help you change yours."


I was shocked and thrilled and very emotional.  He changed my tire like the expert he was and I sat in awe at a skill I needed to have.  Within  ten minutes we were ready to go.  I searched through my purse and tried to pay him.  He shyly smiled.  He refused and said: "I just got married a few weeks ago.  I would hate to have my wife out on a freeway like this and I would hope someone would help her the way I am helping you. "  That sacred moment of silent connection between us was all we needed:  I thanked him, and vowed to pay it forward.  He just smiled.


Often I think of that good deed...that kindness because he could see his wife in me.  Without effort, I can see Jack in all of the college kids around my town and I begin my hellos.  I can see myself in the new teacher and it dawns on me that that's the secret.  Seeing ourself in others gives us the willingness to say hello, to reach out and break down barriers.  Knowing it could be you gives you the grace to be patient, forgiving, understanding and most of all kind.  You're a little more tender and a little less ready to pounce.


So...deep breath...it's time for fewer good-byes and more hellos.


Hello world -- you're pretty beautiful.