One day, the gardener learnt that there would be important dignitaries visiting the temple. This news inspired him to work extra hard—he carefully pulled out all the weeds, pruned the shrubs, combed the moss, and spent a long time meticulously raking up and carefully arranging all the dry autumn leaves.

As he worked, the old Zen master standing beyond the garden wall watched him with interest. When he had finished, the gardener stood back to admire his work. He turned to the old man watching and asked, “Doesn’t it look beautiful?”

“Indeed,” replied the Zen master, “but there’s something amiss. If you’d like, I’ll put it right for you.”

The gardener hesitated at first but then the compassionate look on the master’s face made him nod in consent and he walked towards the old man and helped him climb down the wall. Slowly, the master walked to one of the trees in the middle of the garden, held it with both hands and shook it up. Dry leaves fell down all around the garden. “There,” said the old man, “now you’re done.”

Perfection in imperfection

The Zen story reveals how the human mind has been trained to have fixed ideas about what constitutes perfection and imperfection. In fact, the very idea of imperfection is absurd because how can there be anything imperfect, unless there was someone to judge it as being so.

Imperfection is only a concept. There is nothing imperfect in existence. Can’t be! It’s very existence makes it “perfect”. But we have notions of perfect/imperfect fed into our heads from early age. Imperfection is a subjective phenomenon, totally depending on the individual. In absence of a mind that discriminates, there is only perfection.

In our highly mechanised society, we are used to machine-made things—from our food to our cars, everything is manufactured to specifications and cloned in factories so that every item that comes out of the assembly resembles every other item exactly. If there is even a slight variation, it is considered defective and not fit for consumption.

No two snowflakes are alike

But life isn’t created on an assembly line. It comes in all shapes and sizes, never repeating itself, no matter how many trillion life forms take birth. The reason why every snowflake is unique is that the greater Intelligence that powers our Universe is creative and original. It isn’t concerned about trying to impress anyone; nor does it rely on any die to produce life forms.

Manicured gardens might be soothing to our disciplined minds that have learned to put everything in a certain structure but life grows wild and untamed. Life flourishes when Nature is left to its own. Untouched by humans, it finds its own way to thrive—a phenomenon we urban dwellers find difficult to appreciate or understand. The beauty of such unrestricted growth is not the same as the concepts of beauty that we have grown to accept as standard.

The autumn leaves are dry and brown but they are part of life’s circle of birth and death. When left alone, these leaves merge with the soil in due course and soon new life springs forth from it. The old, dead leaves shed their old form and come back in the form of new growth. Seen from this perspective, autumn leaves reflect the perfection of life. And perhaps that is why the Zen master decorated the garden with the autumn leaves.

Honouring imperfection

The Japanese tradition of Wabi Sabi respects the idea that life is always perfect and that is why it honours the so-called imperfection in outward aesthetics. By definition, Wabi Sabi is the art of finding beauty in the imperfect, the impermanent and the incomplete. A crack in the porcelain mug, for instance, would make it unfit for use in our modern, westernised culture. However, in Japan, it is revered as a sign of authentic beauty and a gentle reminder of the impermanent nature of existence.

No matter how conventionally beautiful and “perfect”, every form disintegrates with time. Seen from our finite perspectives, this transience and imperfection of life may seem dreadful. But such transience and imperfection is what makes life truly beautiful and worth cherishing, if only you care to look at it that way.

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Wabi means humble and simple, a life lived in nature and solitude. Sabi refers to the ‘normal-ness’ of the imperfect: things oddly shaped, lines on faces, rust on metal, moss on paths. Wabi sabi reminds us of the transient nature of living—and that the nature of—well, nature—is imperfection.

Leonard Koren, author of Wabi-Sabi: for Artists, Designers, Poets & Philosophers, wrote: “Wabi sabi is the beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete, the antithesis of our classical western notion of beauty as something perfect, enduring, and monumental.”

Picture a Zen monk, with full attention, raking a lovely garden, and leaving a leaf behind

The leaf left behind is a mark of wabi sabi, and something Nature is going to do anyway, as Nature marks everything with a touch of imperfection. It is only the mad chatter of our minds that tells us that the garden, that our children, that our career or life path, should be perfect. Nothing is perfect.

Now, I’m not suggesting that we shouldn’t try to make things better. The issue is that what is better for me is not necessarily what is better for you. Wabi sabi reminds us to start from acceptance of ‘what is’.

The nature of our universe is a movement toward entropy; things are—and are also winding down at the same time.

Our minds are slowing, our bodies are rusting and wrinkling, and our world groans under the weight of all of us.

One thing I enjoy is photography, and I mostly take photos of people. I notice I am drawn to younger people, yet, once in a while, I’ll photograph people my age. As I begin the cropping and editing, I see the life of the older person in the set of their eyes and in the lines and creases. There is something imperfectly perfect there. What about face lifts, pumped up lips, botoxed foreheads. There’s something artificial about trying to smoothen away the years. But it fits with the urban ideal of youth equalling beauty, where women past a certain age are cast as mothers and grandmothers, not as sex objects. So out come the scalpels, and no one is fooled.

We get caught up in this game because it’s being played all around us.

And that’s not likely to change. It’s why most religions have a ‘monk’ tradition. One description of wabi is that of the reclusive monk, living in a cave, one threadbare outfit to his name. Running from the game seems sensible.

But sabi is there to remind us that really, there is nothing to fear from ageing, from imperfection. And it is as the two terms come together, we see an inclusive path.

In Zen, the chief recognition is that life, with its impermanence and imperfection, is real, [or as it is] and that our misery [suffering, the sense of ‘unsatisfactoriness’, dukkha] comes not from the world itself, but from our minds. We cling to the notion that life should be perfect, and then spend most of our lives in our heads, doing comparisons.

We make our lists [good /bad] and compare ‘what is’ with what we think ought to be. Yet, the ‘way it is’ never really changes, and the more we fight this, the more we disappoint ourselves, anger ourselves, depress ourselves.

The lesson of Zen is that, in the instant when we stop trying for perfection, we free ourselves from the dictates of our mind. Right then, right there, we find the space to stop thinking and actually do something. The monk rakes the garden. Without ‘perfection’ as her goal, she can show reality’s imperfect perfection in miniature.

The Zen life is a moment-by-moment dance between the creative soul and reality of what is.

Back when I was counselling, one of the biggest lessons I conveyed is that the actual situation my client faced was what he or she needed to work on. Not their fantasies about how things ought to be, but the reality in front of them.

Again and again we would look at reality versus faculty assumptions. The assumption that the world should bend to my will because I’m making myself sad is a big problem. My goal was not to get my clients to give in and accept the unacceptable. It was to get them out of their heads and into dealing with the actual situation.

Playing with imperfection

One of my best friends was a vice-president of a Canadian corporation. His boss was a not-so-nice guy. My buddy would go in and ask for something he needed for his department. The boss would yell, swear, scream, and order him out of the office.

He came to me to talk about how unfair it was. People shouldn’t act like that. So on and so forth.

I said two things: you can always quit, and how many times will he say “no?”

Nothing is perfect. His boss was ‘as he was’, so rather than complaining, my friend could walk away, or work with the boss he had, warts and all.

We devised a plan.

My friend went in with a list. He asked for item one. Got yelled at. Instead of leaving, he asked for item two. More and louder yelling. He asked for item three. Silence. Then, “Okay. I guess you’re going to keep asking… go ahead with that.”

He reported back to me. I said, “There! Now you know his number is three! Ask for two things you don’t want, and the thing you do want, ask third.”

This worked for his entire time with the company.

Now, some may think this was manipulative. I disagree. My friend got nothing from his boss by playing the “It isn’t fair!” card. As soon as he accepted the situation in front of him—the simple truth of the inherent imperfection of the situation—another way of acting appeared.

One that benefitted the company, my friend, and his boss.

Wabi sabi is dancing gently with reality, all the time, escaping your head as you have a gentle interaction with ‘what is.’ Imperfection, with wrinkles, age spots, and a slower gait, is quite lovely—just have a look, smile, and act.

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You can consider these strategies to be a quirk-turned-perk energy shift, if you will. A key aspect of Wabi Sabi is learning to move our focus from what makes our partners so annoying to what makes our partners so unique. At its heart, this transition is about gratitude. Gratitude can be a marriage-saving emotion, especially if you tend to easily slide into feelings of annoyance about your partner’s daily habits. Little rituals of thankfulness can sustain you as you struggle with the thing he or she did—again.

One of my favourite prayers comes from A Course in Miracles:

On this day where would you have me go?

What would you have me do?

What would you have me say and to whom?

For many years I began each day with this prayer as a way to centre myself and receive divine guidance. So far so good. Then I got married and my prayers changed.

Dear God,

Help me. I have married a man who refuses to answer the phone, but he will walk across a room to hand me the phone so I can answer it.

Okay. I’m stretching the truth just a bit here, but like all couples, Brian and I each had quirks and odd behaviours that we had to learn to love and appreciate. A daily practice of offering prayers of gratitude [whether you believe in a higher being or not] for your beloved mate—flaws and all—will keep your mind open and your heart receptive to remembering how much you love him or her. For it’s really the cracks in our partners that we will someday miss the most.

Laughter is love’s best medicine

“We go together like ‘chalk and cheese’,” says Deb, laughing, a beautiful British expat with royal lineage. Her husband, Ed, is from a working-class family in the Bronx, and while they are opposites in so many ways, they have been happily married for 24 years. “We are totally tuned in to each other,” Ed explains. “If one of us insists on harping on something, the other simply says, ‘I left that behind an hour ago.’ It is our code for ‘Let’s move on.’”

For the past 20 years, however, Deb has found herself frustrated by something Ed does nearly every day. Ed is an outgoing, teddy-bear type of a guy who talks to nearly everyone with whom he comes in contact. Most would agree that this is a really wonderful quality to possess; for Deb, however, this trait can sometimes put a complete dent into her schedule.

“Ed loves to tell jokes, and he’s really good at it. He shares his jokes with nearly everyone he meets, especially little children. The jokes are great the first time around, but I always end up waiting for him while he’s busy entertaining strangers. After you’ve heard some of these jokes hundreds, maybe thousands of times, it can be pretty irritating.”

Recently, Ed and Deb were standing in line at the bank when Ed struck up a conversation with the little girl. She appeared to be around six years old. Ed said hello to the mother, and then kneeled down next to the little girl and said, “What did the baby strawberry say to its mother?”

The little girl, who turned to the folds in her mother’s skirt, whispered shyly, “I don’t know.”

Ed replied, “The strawberry said to her mother, ‘I’m in a jam!’” And with that the little girl, her mother, and all the other people in line began laughing out loud.

Deb, not amused, realised that an open teller was available and nudged Ed to say good-bye so they could take care of business. As Deb walked over to the window, Ed figured he had just enough time for one more joke. “Why is six afraid of seven?” He inserted a dramatic pause, then continued, “Because seven eight nine!”

Deb’s familiar frustration crept up her neck like the tendrils of a vine on a post. She breathed deeply, slowly releasing the clutch on her paperwork as she slid it over the counter.

After they left the bank, they went to the local farmers market to pick up some fresh organic greens. Deb tried to shake off her irritation with some more deep breathing. As they approached a stand, amid the crowds they both noticed a little boy sitting on the curb.

It was obvious that he was very bored as no one seemed to be paying him any attention. Ed walked over to the little boy and sat next to him on the curb, as Deb stood nearby. “You look like a really smart little boy. Do you know what the right eye said to the left eye?” The boy shook his head. “There’s something that smells between us!’”

The little boy cast him a quizzical look. Not one for giving up easily, Ed was determined to coax a laugh out of the boy. “How does a camel hide in the desert?” Ears perked, the boy cocked his head to the right as he waited for the punch line. “Camelflage!”

The little boy burst into a big belly laugh. Through Ed’s kind gesture, the boy went from disinterested to merry in a single joke. In that moment, his mom breathlessly approached them with a bagful of groceries. Before Ed had a chance to introduce himself and his wife, the little boy did the honours. “Mom, meet Mr. Joke Man. He’s really funny!” She gave Ed a grateful smile, then collected her son to leave. As he took his mom’s hand, the little boy waved goodbye.

Deb was overcome. “In that moment I really got that this is Ed’s essential nature. He just wants to make people happy with this special gift of his. I finally realised that irritating me was not his objective at all. Seeing that little boy light up like a Christmas tree, I finally understood that we can really make people happy. Ed didn’t just give that little boy a gift that day. He gave me one too.”

You can go from “annoyed” to “enjoyed” by just one small Wabi Sabi shift in perception. Imagine how much more fun and rich all our relationships would be if each time we found ourselves “annoyed,” we made it a personal practice to stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and see if we would be willing to find a way to get to “enjoyed.” The simple act of being willing can open up a new world of possibility.

Wabi Sabi Love is grounded in acceptance. It’s the practice of accepting the flaws, imperfections, and limitations—as well as the gifts and the blessings—that form your shared history as a couple. Acceptance and its counterpart, understanding, are crucial to achieving relationship harmony.

This is sacred love, not infatuation, or love that is convenient. What if we discovered that romantic love was never meant to be perfect, but to guide us to this highest form of love? What if, in fact, soul mate we-are-destined-for-one another love exists to propel us into an understanding of Wabi Sabi Love?

Love lessons from the kitchen floor

Even though Diane truly loved Jerry, she was confronted on a daily basis with something about him she found very hard to embrace: his passion for poppy-seed bagels. Since childhood, Jerry has had a love affair with this particular snack, and, in fact, he enthusiastically devours one nearly every day. Jerry slices and toasts his bagel, then takes it into his home office to relish its flavour. But like Hansel in the fairy tale, Jerry always leaves a trail of poppy seeds that sweeps across the white kitchen floor, through the centre of the house, and into his office.

Jerry is aware that he is a bit of a “sloppy Joe.” Although he often makes an effort to clean up the poppy seeds, his cleaning skills somehow never match Diane’s desire to have an utterly spotless floor. One day Diane was feeling uncharacteristically grumpy. As she entered the kitchen and looked down, her level of grumpiness increased a hundredfold when she found herself swimming in a sea of scattered poppy seeds yet again. As she had done a thousand times before, Diane moistened a hand towel and got down on her hands and knees to begin cleaning up the mounds of accumulated seeds. Just once, she thought, I would like to come into the kitchen and not find these poppy seeds, huffing as she vigorously hand-wiped the floor to her satisfaction.

As she sat back on her heels, a thought struck her through the haze of her own frustration. What if the floor never had any more poppy seeds on it? As if hit by lightning, Diane suddenly realised that would mean there would be no more Jerry! Tears flooded her eyes as she stood up. She gazed down at the poppy seeds that were gritting up her floor. Instead of looking like grains of grey sand, they suddenly looked amazing to her—like little black diamonds that represented everything in her life that was precious and sacred to her.

She rushed into Jerry’s study, threw her arms around him, and kissed him through tears of joy. He gave her a quizzical yet loving look as he popped the last bit of poppy-seed bagel into his mouth, then brushed the seeds that had landed on his shirt onto the floor.

Today she describes it this way: “Now, no matter how many seeds I may mop up, I’m very peaceful inside. Whenever I see those poppy seeds, they fill me with so much love and gratitude; and on some days I deliberately leave them and my old compulsive behaviour behind as I smile, turn on my heel, and walk away.”

We all have our unique ways of responding to life. Learning the ways of our beloveds requires paying attention to all the ways they make decisions and respond to life’s challenges.

Chances are they don’t do things exactly the way we would do them [and who is to say our way is the right way or the only way?], so I suggest you recite the prayer of a Wabi Sabi relationship to yourself often. It is the Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.

Whether it’s your mate’s bad hair, bad jokes, or poppy seeds that get under your skin, remember the prayer of a Wabi Sabi relationship before you go ballistic.

Excerpted with permission from Wabi Sabi Love by Arielle Ford  published by Harper Collins

This was first published in the October 2013 issue of Complete Wellbeing.

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