wabi sabi beauty
This is wabi sabi beauty: rusted out, broken, petrified pipes. They gave their all for their purpose. They were useful for as many years as they could be, given the conditions they lived under, which I do not fully know. They definitely saw a lot of action, though. Wow.
I almost kept them for an art project.
Yet I have no welding skills and while leaving them in a pile is beautiful enough at the moment, it's just a pile of trash to the neighbors. And they would turn into another "what if" which I don't need.
And so I practiced my art, seeing them fully through the lens before they were taken away.
I do not need to keep everything that comes to me. This is not my practice. (For some people, keeping things around can be their practice. It is not mine. I practice letting go.) I do not need to see ugliness in trash, either, though, to be able to let it go.
There is beauty in what has worn down, in what is broken. For almost seventy years, these pipes allowed water to flow freely through them. They were what they needed to be, to fulfill that job. Whole and unclogged. Beautiful.
And now they are broken and clogged. Beautiful.
All life that begins, ends. And begins. And ends. Everything. Recycled, yes, but not the same. We cannot ask for never-aging things, much less for never-aging selves.
Everything that is born dies. And in the aging, in the process, in the now of each moment, there is beauty.
The lines on my husband's face are all the more beautiful to me because I have been there to see them etched, one laugh at a time. We have marveled at his graying hair. Together. Each memory, each moment a world all its own.
When Remy was born, we marveled as many new parents do, at the newness of his skin. His hands, so tender and soft and fresh (and tiny) next to our own. And yet, I still recognized the beauty in my hands, in the work they have done, the power that they have to soothe, to stir, to love. My hands have grown into their lines, into their scars. They have been here for 38 years and counting. I could not and would not trade them for brand new skin.
And every day, Remy grows and his skin ages and it is so beautiful to me, each series of now, each moment of him here, and how it changes him, brings him further into this world, into his adult self, into his own unique becoming.
This is what wabi sabi is to me, every day. Each moment, the culmination of every moment that happened before, and yet, a world new unto itself, with no need for explanation. Each moment, our own becoming, as we go further into the beauty of our lives.
This moment. Part of something bigger than itself and yet whole.