Wabi sabi represents a Japanese view that in art books is typically defined as "flawed beauty." Personally, I spent the first twenty years of my life with quite the opposite view. A quality that is both a blessing and a curse: I like to keep things perfect. My grandpa was adamant about taking good care of things and knowing the value of what you have. To him, taking the best possible care of what your hard earned money had bought, was showing appreciation for it, plus, it kept you from being wasteful since things would not need to be replaced unnecessarily. I remember how his dump truck, which he used daily for work, was cleaner on the inside than most other peoples new cars. This sickness, as we've grown to call it, was passed on to my Mom and to us kids. We always took care of things, yet often took this to the extreme. I remember playing for hours and hours with my huge collection of Barbie's. However, the Dream House was always in order, her clothing was always organized with not so much as a shoe misplaced and everyone was always impeccably dressed with their hairdo's perfect. I had Barbie's Afghan hound and he was always groomed to the nines. I liked my bedroom neat and I could find everything I needed and everything had it's place.
As I got older, I was even more determined to keep things showroom new. If you've seen one of those people who could paint a house and not get one drop of paint on them, that's me. Plus, the least little scratch, mark, or blemish on anything could send me into either a fit of repair or I would toss whatever it was and replace the whole thing with a new, unmarked version. See why we call this a sickness?
Then, one sunny day in June of 1993, I brought a stray kitten home from work. Tiger howled at the back door of our office wanting in that day. I fed him a can of tuna at lunchtime and brought him home that evening. I had never had a cat or dog in the house, ever. I loved him already and was afraid if I didn't keep him inside, he would run away or get hurt and maybe even killed. That began a big lesson for me. I learned about wabi sabi. When you decide to share your home with a pet, especially a dog or cat, no matter how well behaved they are, some of your stuff is going to get the brunt of it.
The foot of my bed has ever since been the favorite rest area for cats. The back of my couch has been a scratching post. The whole house has been one big race track. The bathroom sink doubles as a cool, summertime cat bed. I've seen the paw prints all over my coffee table. Most of my black clothes have cat hair on them. There's a long legged Siamese who can jump nearly five feet straight up and she does. Then came the greyhounds. There are big dog beds scattered through the house. Our warmest blankets became dog blankets. Squeaky toys litter the living room and our front room. The glass storm door always has nose prints. I paid the library $27 for Cesar Milan's Be The Pack Leader because Luke ruined the cover carrying the book around and finally hiding it in his bed. I had to put my cute collection of Boyd's Bears up on a shelf after I found several bears, soaking wet with doggie drool after they had taken lots of abuse in the search for a squeaker. These things may not sound like big deals to most people, and they're not to me now, but to me, about fifteen years ago, the most minor of things could have caused a full blown, perfectionist, five alarm emergency to get things back in order and the damage assessment performed.
After I spent the first few year with Tiger, I was semi-reformed. I would still love to keep things in good repair, looking new, and I do try. But, the scratches, the dings, and blemishes make my stuff mine. I guess I've learned to embrace the wabi sabi. My hounds and cats have brought more to my life than anything money can buy and if things get a little beat up, no big deal. I can replace or repair any of this stuff, but I cannot replace them.
Right now, Tiger sleeps in one cat bed, Jasmine sleeps in another, and Paisley is snug as a bug on the foot of my side of the bed. Luke is stretched out in his living room doggie bed, covered in what used to be my favorite warm blanket. I need to clean the litter boxes and pick up the toys. Plus, I'm pretty sure Jasmine has been playing in the Christmas tree again. The house will never be perfect and I'm just fine with that. But, just between us, in a chest at the foot of the bed, sleep all of my childhood Barbie's, wrapped in tissue, and wearing their original clothes.
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