08/11/10
When I was sixteen and building my first house
I had an epiphany about wood,
I noticed that it was changing: warping, oozing, cracking
Even as I constructed.
I hated that fact.
I wanted my work to be perfect and permanent.
I thrashed around in my sleep.
Perplexed by imperfection.
My boss at the time was a slob.
He coached me: “You need to adjust your attitude:
Don’t worry ‘bout it. Goddamnit.
Can’t see it from my house anyway.” He shrugged.
I found some boldness in his prescription for mindless action.
And that seemed to work for him and be to his pleasing
When I immediately did what he told me to do.
Right wrong: not my fault: not my job to be mindful.
I never could make peace with it.
Even with a raise, when everything was swimming.
I thrashed around in my sleep.
Wrestling an internal opponent that pit me against myself.
I was blissfully unemployed about five years ago
I sat on the lawn at my sister’s house
With both my artist sisters, eating a simple lunch.
One sister said “Wabi Sabi”
Other sister said “Just was reading about that.”
Brother in law rounded the house
Like in a musical reading a book titled:
“What is Wabi Sabi?”
Well…. It’s a Japanese phrase that juxtaposes
Two notions of age, like New-Old.
Like aging renewed by usage.
An old tarnished door knob that shines anew just where you grasp it.
So after years of mindful care, I can grasp and turn a log
From something old, hidden and rotting
Into a fascinating new vessel.
That honors old and new life in its layers of age and coping.
That has been the idea behind my work this week.
Love, John
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