Swell Head

      Wabi-sabi.

      No, not her.  That is just a photo of my mom when she was about thirty.

      It is the Japanese term that comes to mind when I see the picture.  It refers to the inclination – or perhaps it is a skill – to focus on the beauty in imperfection.  The crack that crackles with life, the rot that resonates through change, the oops that whoop.  It is the hunch that truth is in the flaw not in the ideal and it is an important part of the Japanese aesthetic.

      I think of it when I see this photo not due to any flaw in it or in her, but simply because she herself was devoted to this idea even if she never heard the term.  In fact, my mom was a genius at finding flaws.  The missed grade, the overlooked smudge, the dashed hope.  I believe that she may have been a founding member of the Anti-Swellhead movement in parenting.  Their credo: the kid is not that gorgeous, not that smart, lucky to just get by because – God forbid! – you give him a swelled head.

      I think now that this kind of loving sniping was meant to protect me from disappointment because she knew that most things never pan out.  I suspect that she was not being critical as much as careful.  She knew how easily the world could damage and how disappointment can bludgeon.  As a teacher, she also knew about the three most destructive elements in the universe…dark matter, plutonium, and getting too big for your own britches. 

      This of course is a tradition in Jewish upbringing.  It was her version of kineahora, a plea meant to protect you from the evil eye.  You say it to balance out even a hint of bragging lest the powers of the universe – or your enemies – turn against you for your pride.  Jews do not generally believe in astrology but they check their kineahora-scopes daily.

      All this I learned quickly and memorized those three magic little words that have become so important in my life...not good enough.  And in the way that a shout becomes an echo even more vibrant, my mother’s criticism became a lingering hum in my head, background noise to a life of striving but never taking any satisfaction from it.

      Don’t get me wrong, I know that she also loved and admired and tried to encourage me.  Ironing pleats, studying music and karate, learning how to learn, rewiring lamps, loving discovery, sewing a hem, even writing…I could not have done any of those without her support early on.  I can still often sense her warm thick hand on my back, right in the middle on the spine, midway between a push and a pat, urging me on.  But as I took the first step I could also sense her, like a heat wave, behind me worrying,

      In retrospect and hindsight and retrosight and all that, I can also see how her cautious nature resulted in my hilariously dismal need for her approval, which was impossible to obtain.  Another piece of wabi-sabi I have carried with me, although I still cannot see the beauty in it.  And that of course is my story in a nut’s hell…I mean a nutshell.

      Goethe said that as soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live.  Good for Goethe; I’m still waiting for that.  But I do know, as everyone does, that the secret to happiness is not getting what you want, it is wanting what you’ve got.  Give up the quest for success and the need for approval and just do your little do's….that’s the ticket and it is plain as day. 

      But here is the question: is it possible to have the same insight over and over and never gain anything from it?

      Obviously it is.