Wabi Sabi and the Art of Aging
As a North American woman about to turn 63, I’m constantly pitted in a race against myself. Targeted advertising follows me online, in magazines, on billboards bombarding me with potion, lotions and cosmetic miracles, all aimed at make me appear younger than I naturally am.
It’s true, much of my appearance has changed. My face, my figure, my hipness have taken a hit. But it’s now, not acceptable to be the age I have lasted, without turning back the clock, on some aspect of my appearance.
When my mother hit Midlife, she was on the same playing field as all the other women on her block and in her social circle.
They all approached aging on the same level, some looking a bit better than
others, but strictly from their DNA.
There was no fillers or Botox or chemical peels, no surgery to get rid of lines and frowns, no hand jobs, or vaginal tucks.
My Mom, and all her friends, just grew old gracefully and no one thought
anything differently about her as she went through her sixties and seventies, with only a good cold cream from England as her beauty ritual.
Hers, I believe, was the last generation to be permitted to age and enter Midlife naturally.
17 years ago, when Botox was approved for treating lines and furrows, the cosmetic and pharmaceutical industry declared war on aging.
Our culture embraced the notion, so completely, that simply living with what God gave you is now considered quite old fashioned thinking. Society decided looking old was no longer normal, and many bought into the notion that we should never ever look our real age again. Even the women who are only in their 20’s and 30’s are paying for extreme makeovers as “preventative “medicine.
as Oprah says ...” if we don’t look young, at all costs, we do not
matter. As we buy into this perfection culture, we contribute to the pervasive sickness that is wanting to be what you are not”
Our Midlife becomes filled with apprehension as we stare into the mirror, fearing we are crossing the line, into old age, a place where society deems there is little value.
Even spry Octogenarian women who tend to their herb garden, make their own vegan meals and do daily yoga, are only recognized as amazing, because they are still depicting youthfulness. This youth obsession is a really big problem for us.
Other ages revered their elders, sought their wisdom, and listened to their
stories. They were allowed to age with grace and dignity earning like badges of bravery their lines and wrinkles. Not us.
For the most part we are told 60 is now 50, and 50 is now 40, in some way
making middle age, depending on your vanity, and your disposable income, an elastic time frame which can stretch or snap.
Unlike other cultures, North American society does not have a solid philosophy on our stages of life.
Life has a beginning, a middle and an end. The middle part is the
longest, and I think the most interesting as it’s where we learn what matters. The anti-aging propaganda and highly popular cosmetic surgeries and procedures are literally erasing this period of our lives.
Not only does this cripple our journey, as we lollygag back in time, but worse, people will forget how ordinary women our age, should look.
That’s why I have embraced Wabi Sabi.
The beauty of age, the richness of character, the importance of imperfection, and the reality of impermanence. This is the definition of Wabi Sabi.
The philosophy is simple.
Nothing is perfect. Nothing lasts. And Nothing is finished.
When I grasped the idea that imperfection, holds its own beauty, I found relief from the torture of trying to attain the impossible goal of perfection.
Wabi Sabi is easy to find when you know how to look for it.
When I hold an heirloom tomato in my hand, freshly picked from its stem, slowly ripened by the late summer sun, it is deliciously imperfect in its
appearance. It is often misshapen, under or over-sized, with cracked seams and blemished skin. Mother Nature does not grow things perfectly, and that includes us..
Yet what is normal or natural is the antithesis of our North American consumer driven youth obsessed culture.
We willingly pay to be injected, frozen, peeled and plumped as if a tighter, shinier version of us will make us more acceptable.
Wabi Sabi says your appearance is only enhanced by embracing the old and worn parts that have served you so well, and appreciating them for the deep resonate beauty they evoke.
Perhaps we can only start to live more fully when there is less focus on our looks and more focus on our lives. More importance on how we feel, opposed to how we look.
Here is something Midlife has taught me. Vanity only comes out to play when the sun is shining. No one ever worried about their looks when they are sliding down the tunnel of an MRI machine, or lining up for a bed at a homeless shelter. No one at sea, tossing for weeks, in the nauseating under belly of a ships hull, waiting for freedom, ever gave a 2nd thought about their appearances. As our privileged world, gets ever more so, we have so few other distractions, that we have become narcissists at the pond's edge, so preoccupied with our fading beauty, we are about to fall in.
Instead, Westerner women should long to dive into the Japanese pool of Wabi Sabi.
Wabi Sabi celebrates much of what we lack in today’s world.
Wabi Sabi celebrates Women who are not frozen in place but still function nicely with aging and well worn parts. Women whose inner wisdom from all these years on earth shines through their wit, their conversations, their philosophy of life. Women who are not betrayed by the badges of their journey. Our lines and wrinkles, our age spots and the greying hair, all prove we made the trek. Armed with my Wabi Sabi, I am nothing but imperfectly perfect, just like that heirloom tomato aging in my garden.
