I think of the paraphernalia my young daughters pick up on our walks, things I stopped noticing long ago — discarded feathers, stones worn shiny by water. They’re drawn to these treasures for their expressive textures, shapes, and colors, each thing unique in the world. So miraculous just the way they are, and yet so simple.
In our culture, “simplicity” is often code for a life that’s meticulously organized or for spare, boutique perfection. We’re brought up to strive for the best, the brightest, and most extraordinary. It may not be natural to us to seek pleasure in the quotidian, let alone a Japanese concept that celebrates rust.
But what could be more radically simple than acceptance? As Richard Powell, author of “Wabi Sabi Simple,” told me, “Accepting the world as imperfect, unfinished, and transient, and then going deeper and celebrating that reality, is something not unlike freedom.”
I find the idea of abandoning “perfect” and even “good enough” irresistibly tempting. Life — the fingerprints, scars, and laugh lines — is itself perfectly imperfect, and I can embrace the beauty in that.