Wabi Sabi. No, not wasabi.
Though when you get a hit of it – wabi sabi, that is – before you know what it means – it’s like a heaping spoonful of wasabi.
Hits you right in your solar plexus.
You can hardly breathe.
Think you’re gonna die.
I know. Three years ago. An April Sunday like today.
I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck.
And my mouth, like I’ve just come from the dentist and the freezing’s wearing off.
By the end of the day, I look like I’ve OD’D on botox.
One half of my face frozen, falling down on my shoulder.
The other aged a decade, holding the ravages of stress and fear.
Oh my God. What’s happening?
The nurse in the group who I’ve been consulting since morning says now is the time to get to ER.
Eight hours later, unbeknownst to me, a differential diagnosis of stroke ruled out.
“Bells Palsy, we think. We don’t know what brings it on. There’s no cure. Treatment – time, and oh yeah, here’s a script for prednisone. Get it filled right away to reduce the inflammation of the facial nerve.”
Cracked my life open. My whole life. Wide open.
Took some time before I could talk about it, let alone chew, smile, sip, blow bubbles, whistle, wink and do all the things, make all the expressions we take for granted with a fully functioning face.
“Wabi Sabi,” is how a friend described it, me. The first I’d heard the phrase. A gift really, both her introducing me to it, and what it means.
a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete.
a beauty of things modest and humble.
a beauty of things unconventional.”
Like the green dollop in the corner of the cracked white porcelain sushi plate. The goose poop on the pristine patch of grass.
(A “poem essay” in response to the writing prompt, “wabi sabi” and a photograph of – yes, goose poop on the lawn of the Devonian Garden’s Japanese Garden – at BeComing, a poetry and photography workshop hosted by Shawna Lemay, held in the Japanese Pavillon at the Devonian Gardens, Sunday, April 17, 2016. Posted on the third anniversary.)