Wabi Sabi

by Beth Kempton

  One snowy evening in Hida-Takayama, I venture around the corner from my rented place to Yutopia, paying ¥420 (about £3) for the privilege of an hour or two soaking in a large shared tub. After leaving all my clothes in a locker in the changing room, I head to the heat, naked, but for a pair of plastic slippers.

  It’s steamy inside, and there are washing stations on two sides of the room. You have to crouch down and sit on a low stool, while you shower and wash your body with the aid of a plastic bucket. Someone thought it would be a good idea to put mirrors there. Still carrying 15lb of baby weight I would like to have released a couple of years ago, I’m not sure I agree.

  As I wash my hair, I can’t help catching sight of some of the other women in the room. None of them is looking at me. They are all walking around straight-backed, with an air of quiet confidence, regardless of body shape, age or any other defining factor that would render others among us self-conscious. There is an elderly lady soaking her aching limbs luxuriously in the jacuzzi section. Two friends gossiping. A mother with her young child. I wonder what a difference it will make to that little girl’s body confidence, having been brought up bathing in a public place like this.

  For many years, girls in the West have been sold images of ‘perfection’ that all look the same. Thankfully, this is starting to change, but we still have a long way to go. We are all heavily influenced by what we see, hear and experience growing up, and we notice what our parents and other adults value, through what they say, how they interact with others and how they make decisions.

  Suddenly, I notice how at ease I feel without my clothes, which is an unusual experience for this reserved Englishwoman. When those around me aren’t paying my ‘flaws’ any attention, neither am I. This evening in the bathhouse has taught me something important: my appreciation of my own imperfections is as much a gift to my daughters as it is to myself.

  Choosing your role models carefully

  The better we get at what we do, the more exposure we get to people who have done more, are ‘further ahead’, have more ‘success’. But as soon as we take our eyes off our own path and get lost in theirs, we miss the very experience of our own journey. It’s like being on a train, travelling through a foreign country you have always wanted to visit, and then spending the whole trip watching a film on your laptop. You miss the point, and you miss the adventure.

  There will always be some people who know more, have done more or have more experience or knowledge than us in a particular field at a particular moment in time. We can choose to look at this as a reflection of lack in ourselves, or an opportunity for inspiration from them.

  When the very people we admire and follow are the people who trigger a feeling of insufficiency in us, it is often because we are projecting an unrealistic ideal of perfection onto them. When that happens, we either have to change our outlook, or change who we follow.

  We have to keep bringing our attention back to the lives we already have, tethering ourselves to what is here and what is real: love, laughter, kind words, quiet beauty. The tiny details that make up the texture of our lives.

  Seeing the beauty in imperfection

  When a potter makes a series of hand-crafted pots, they are not aiming for perfection in terms of symmetry and uniformity, or else they would use a machine. They aim for natural beauty, the mark of the hand and the infusion of the heart.

  We are not supposed to be flawless and uniform, as if we have come out of a people factory. What if you imagined yourself as a beautiful hand-crafted pot, lovingly shaped and appreciated because of, not in spite of, your imperfections? What if you acknowledged that texture, character and depth are what underlie your natural beauty, inside and out? And what if you recognised how all that has shaped you along the way has made you who you are today?

  Over the years, we paste layers over our natural beauty in our endless pursuit of perfection – with anti-ageing creams, accumulated stuff, job titles and projected images that we think might make other people like us better. But all that is heavy, and it masks what lies within. It’s only when you strip back the layers that you let your inner beauty shine.

  It is our imperfections that make us unique, and our uniqueness that makes each of us beautiful.

  What if we were to agree that our ideal state is actually perfect imperfection, and that we are already there? There would be no more struggle or exhausting hustle. Rather, a relaxing into the knowledge that we are just fine, just as we are.

  Going one step further, we might see that those imperfections could actually be the doorways to new learning opportunities, experiences, conversations and connections. Suddenly, perfect would not seem so desirable, after all, and we would realise we are capable of more than we have ever imagined.

  Let’s cast our minds back to what the monk said in Chapter 3 . ‘Wabi sabi is about things in their natural, most authentic state.’ What does your ‘natural, most authentic state’ look like? Is that how you walk through the world? Is that the version you take with you to work? Or the version you show to your friends and family? If not, what do you need to strip away to get back to that state?

  Letting go of perfect

  Frank Ostaseski, Founding Director of the Zen Hospice Project in San Francisco once said: ‘Wholeness does not mean perfection. It means no part left out.’ 2

  I am writing this at my kitchen counter, glass of wine in hand, dinner dishes stacked high in the sink, waiting for some attention. A voice in my head keeps reminding me that my large travel bag is still lying on my bedroom floor, in the exact spot I left it there on Sunday after my latest trip away. At my feet are strewn children’s toys – an open jewellery box with a sleepy ballerina done with pirouetting for the day; a little teapot ready to serve a teddy bear’s picnic, a balloon from a long-forgotten party slowly wrinkling up …

  To begin with, I found so much about parenting not just challenging but confusing. To at once feel so blessed, yet so frustrated. So deeply grateful for their presence, yet stressed out by their demands. So utterly in love, yet out of control. And then I realised, it’s not just the children who are growing, but us parents too. We need space to grow into the parents we are becoming. The discomfort is growth. That’s why it’s scary, difficult and chaotic, but look what it leads to.

  Now I look around at the chaos on my living-room floor – the half-dressed doll and rabble of Duplo blocks, the pile of books and scattering of abandoned crayons – and I see something else. I see their incessant curiosity, boundless energy and burning desire to learn more about the world around them. I see joy. Un-adult-erated child’s play. There’s medicine in their laughter and wonder in the air.

  I have done my best to make our home soulfully simple and quietly beautiful. But I am not going to kid myself that I should be some kind of perfect homemaker, or that my house is going to be tidy all the time.

  I think about how I want my daughters to remember their childhood. Is the most important thing for them to say, ‘We always had a perfectly tidy house’? No. I’m not judging you if you do have a tidy house. I am secretly jealous of it. But what I am saying is that we have to make choices, and right now this is mine. I want them to say, ‘Our house was a lovely happy house, where we felt safe and comfortable. We were always loved and looked after, and we were taught how to love and look after each other. We learned to treasure what we had, and even more than that, to treasure our time together.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It won’t last,’ they say. But that’s also the sad thing, and the reason for seeking the gift in among it all. Because it won’t last. My girls will soon be interested in different things, different people. They won’t want to snuggle in close, play for hours or chatter with me all day long. And so now, while it lasts, I’m going to be grateful for all of it. Even the wrinkly balloon bobbing around my feet.

  Accepting the hard stuff

  Everything in nature is changing, and so is your story. Acceptance doesn’t mean this is how it’s going to end. It’s an ackno
wledgement that this is where it begins. We are all works in progress. To be alive is to evolve. You can play an active role in that evolution, but first you need to recognise that it is happening. Wabi sabi helps you do that in a gentle and nourishing way.

  Wabi sabi teaches perspective – seeing things for how big or small they really are, whether they really matter and whether to nourish them or let them go. When something hard is happening, acceptance can be a real friend. It’s not about handing over your power, or allowing inappropriate behaviour. It’s not passive, it’s active.

  Acceptance means saying:

  1. This is what is happening (observing it, not resisting it).

  2. This is how much it really matters (if at all).

  3. This is the beginning of all that is to come, and this is what I am going to do next.

  It’s saying, this is where I am. This is where we are. The vase is smashed. The marriage is broken. The business is struggling. I am lonely. My child is upset. I just got rejected, again. Whatever is going on, this is what is, right now. We mustn’t ignore what’s happening, but we also don’t need to dramatise it. We need to live and acknowledge it, and then let go of the attachment to it. The truth is, we can’t hold on, and we can’t just push on past; when we learn to surrender to difficulty, accepting that it will come and it will go, life shifts from a battle to a dance.

  Allowing the future

  Not long ago I spent time in the home of Mineyo Kanie, a wonderful ninety-four-year-old woman you will meet in Chapter 8 . When prompted for her secret to a happy life, she said she believed the root of all unhappiness was not being content with what you have, and spending too much time looking outside your life, instead of spending time inside it. This doesn’t mean we cannot have dreams, but rather that happiness begins with gratitude. Kanie-san has clearly seen the tsukubai at Ryōan-ji too (see p. 90 ).

  Hope is not the same as expectation. You can plan for and invite a particular future, but you cannot determine or control it. Visualise what you want, but then let it go. Release your attachment to the timeline, and then come back to being present in your life right now.

  This week, I challenge you to get clear on what you are grateful for, and then let go of all expectation about anything that has not yet happened. Open your mind and heart to whatever might unfold. Try to go a whole seven days without having to control everything, without stressing when things don’t work out as you thought they would or should. As you do this, any time you feel the need to take charge, try to relax out of it, just to see what happens. Look for the good that happened precisely because things didn’t work out the way you thought they would or should.

  Stay open. Make room for small miracles.

  And take your time. There really is no desperate hurry. When we constantly pursue perfection, our life speeds up. We make hasty decisions and snap judgements. Wabi sabi offers an opportunity to pause, reflect, check in with yourself and move from there. You’ll likely feel relieved, and make better choices.

  WABI-SABI -INSPIRED WISDOM

  FOR ACCEPTANCE AND SELF-APPRECIATION

  • Change is inevitable, so trying to hold on to the past or present is pointless. Be open. Your life is happening right here, right now.

  • When your head cannot find the answers, remember your heart may know the way.

  • Perfection is a myth. You are perfectly imperfect, just as you are.

  TRY IT: PRACTISING ACCEPTANCE

  Acceptance is a decision (I am not going to be caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts pulling me away from being here), a recognition (this is what has just happened, or what is happening right now) and a new beginning (by realising where I am, I can move forward from here, with this as my new starting point).

  Whatever is going on for you right now, consider trying to accept it in this moment, and see what difference it makes to your perspective. Use the exercise below to help you do this:

  1. The decision: I am not going to get caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts, pulling me away. Right now, in this moment I am:

  (Describe where you are, what you can see/hear/taste/ smell/feel with your body, such as your feet on the floor or the feel of the seat you are sitting on.)

  2. The recognition: this is what has just happened, or what is happening right now. The facts in this moment are:

  3. The new beginning: this is a new beginning. (This doesn’t have to be a dramatic new beginning, although it can be.) With this starting point I can/I will:

  Acceptance isn’t always easy. Things happen that feel unfair, uninvited, badly timed, painful. It’s not a way to numb your emotions, but rather a way to get some clarity to allow you to feel what you need to feel. At a time like this, self-care is paramount. Make a commitment to yourself.

  Ways in which I am going to take care of myself as I go through this:

  Mind: (e.g. share my worries with a friend, say no to additional commitments this week, etc.)

  Body: (e.g. go for a long walk in nature, nourish my body with fresh and wholesome food, etc.)

  Spirit: (e.g. meditate first thing in the morning, keep a gratitude list, etc.)

  T he Japanese have a famous proverb, nana korobi, ya oki , meaning, ‘Fall down seven times, get up eight.’ This is something I became intimately familiar with when learning Japanese. The proverb represents the idea of not giving up, but more than that it doesn’t start with falling down (as that would be ‘fall down seven times, get up seven’.) It counts the first time you get up, reminding us that we have to show up first, in order to have the chance to fail, and then have the chance to get back up again.

  As the only non-linguist on my degree course, things don’t begin well. In the first week of university, when my new friends are learning lofty things in labs and lecture theatres, I am practising how to say ‘Hello’ in three different ways, depending on the time of day. And sometimes getting it wrong.

  As a student in the Department of East Asian Studies at Durham University, I love the tradition and the experience – the small group tutorials with kind teachers in classrooms tucked into the eaves of an old Victorian house, the rows and rows of books with kanji characters on their spines, which I dream of being able to read one day, and the Oriental Museum next door, packed with textiles, woodblock prints and other exotic artefacts. Our lessons include learning the etiquette of visiting Japanese people’s homes, watching Miyazaki animations and spending Thursday afternoons dipping brushes into shiny black ink to paint kanji on rice paper, with classical music playing in the background. Japanese is a song, and I love the sound of it. I am just not very good at singing it.

  From the very first vocabulary test, my path is littered with the debris of failure. I do so badly in my first-year exams that one of the senior lecturers calls me into his office and announces, with a solemn look on his face, that the department isn’t sure if they should let me go to Kyōto the following term. What? Don’t they understand? Going to live in Japan has been the whole point. I am here for the adventure. I beg and plead and assure them that I will be fine once I spend time immersed in the language and culture. Somehow, it works, and a few weeks later I find myself on a plane heading east, self-doubt tucked into my suitcase alongside my kanji dictionary and a year’s worth of clothes.

  Walking through Kansai International Airport, I see signs I can’t read, hear conversations and announcements I can’t understand and am floored by the realisation that people actually speak the language of my textbooks. The same one I should have spent hours studying instead of reading the news bulletin on the university radio or gathering campus gossip for the student paper. And then I meet my host mother, who only speaks Kyōto dialect, and the rest of my host family, none of whom speaks English, and it suddenly becomes very clear that I’ll have to up my game if I am going to survive the next year.

  My language-learning journey, drawn on a graph, starts at zero on the bottom left, with a nervous line indicating a rocky start, followed by a general lift the first year I am in Ky
ōto. The line rises in times of high motivation, and dips in times of low morale. It plateaus about halfway through, rises again with approaching exams, and rises further on return to England, as I finish my degree. I get to a point where I feel quite confident on graduation, only to get a shock on entering the workforce in Japan, seeing that the vertical axis reaches so much higher than I had realised. What I think of as a pretty good standard turns out not to be that good, after all, when I have to interpret live, on big stages, for governors, ambassadors and top athletes. I tape meetings and relisten until I understand, painstakingly translate newspaper articles and throw myself into as many cultural classes and friendships as I can. All the while, it is a rollercoaster of pride and despair, as I alternate between how far I have come and how far I have to go.

  Eventually, I come to realise that I can only do what I can do, with the tools I have in the moment. I can prepare myself as best as possible, and then I just need to show up – ideally, well rested and alert – to do the best job possible. Every time I do this, I get a little better, learn a little more and grow in confidence. Of course, there are times when that confidence is shattered all over again, but I pick myself up and get on with it.

  That graph of language learning rose again with every year I spent working in Tōkyō. It probably peaked in the year I spent immersed in the study of simultaneous interpreting skills for my master’s degree. It was then that I went to the UN for work experience, sharing an interpreting booth with women who were brought up bilingual, had three decades of experience in the job and knitted as they switched effortlessly between languages. Going there was probably a mistake. I was hugely intimidated, and felt my own confidence seeping away. My graph suddenly looked like the Nikkei index after a stock-market crash.