A while ago, we were readying the nighttime med doses for the furry ones when we heard the tiniest if noises... Really tiny.
We reckon that, in some parallel universe, that the sound of rose petals landing on pill bottles may be deafening.
But here? Hey, we were tickled we heard it at all. (Things you appreciate as you age #4,211)
The last petal landed in that sliver of a second you feel your eyeball brake. Then things got reeeaaally slow, a most inadvertent Proust impression going on.
But it was good because...
Right before that, we were thinking about flaws. The most disgruntling variety: our own. Enormous ones, natch. Those clowns are usually sitting in a corner reading some trashy magazine waiting to be called to the fight.
But smaller flaw recognition was rising. Less distant ones. The tiny failings and flailings of stuff that needs straightening, tightening, done better, faster, more cheerfully, etc. We know the drill. Flat-out: The little ones in a gang are vicious.
But suddenly, in that moment between this and that o'clock, in that finely orchestrated and totally kinetic tap tap tapping at the door of the falling petals, this is what happened...
We saw It All as being perfect.
All. The entire before that moment and the moment itself and there was no thought of a moment after.
The Japanese have a term for it. We are not Japanese and hope we're using it correctly. The term is 'wabi-sabi. We thought we knew the definition as 'the natural beauty of decay', but, because we know there are several of you who haven't fallen asleep yet from this post - bless you, nighttime whisper buddies - we figure we owe you an unimprovised definition. Not going so far as Oxford Dictionary but the much vilified Wikipedia for this:
Wabi-sabi is 'that beauty which is imperfect, impermanent and incomplete'.
(Just a silly, incidental aside - truly a petty one at that - If we read one single f-ing comment dissing Wikipedia, we'll... we'll..we'll mock you roundly in private and altogether over the top ways for being so...so. Damn. We'll have to figure out the Japanese term for it. Failing that, we're certain there's a German one.)
Anyway, what would have made this vista really uber perfect- and honest - would be if we'd included the big 32 pack of processed American cheese we use to fold up Mama Dog's fistful of arthritis meds. The preternatural and quite unlikely hue of orange not found in nature is missing.
So, next time we'll include a shot of that origami-swan cheese ball. (It ain't easy cramming Rimadyl, Tramadol, horse size glucosamine and one we're forgetting into that rubbery substance.)
Thanks for stopping by to see the funky wabi-sabi of my raggedy ass roses in the midnight shadows of a sort of clean kitchen.
And sweet dreams.