this entry has wabi
I’ve been in a crap mood this week, one fed by restlessness and self-doubt. Unlike my friends, I am not having a second baby, moving apartments, taking a quick vacation in New York or travelling up the Italian coast on the back of a motorcycle. Nope, I’m baking low-fat banana bread, washing out soiled toddler underwear and trying to avoid my parents. Par-ty.
On Thursday I passed by the airport on my drive into town. I was very close to going inside and buying a ticket for Blake and myself to get the hell away. Of course, I didn’t. We didn’t have our passports and there wasn’t anywhere specific I wanted to go. Plus, it’s hard to adopt the way of the weyr* when you need to stop for a diaper change and toddler-approved food every once in awhile.
Today I have some sort of funky stomach bug. It’s just mild enough to keep me from getting any dramatic symptoms and just strong enough to suck all the enjoyment from life. It’s a passive aggressive ailment that way. I medicated with Chinese food, an enjoyable break in my low-fat diet. (This diet is working, btw. All I do is cook from Looneyspoons and order better foods when I’m out, and I already fit my shorts a little better.) I’m going to knit my sulking socks some more. I just wanted to write a little before my skillz dried up altogether.
Oh, Corina tells me that the comments are hating her. If you want to leave a comment and can’t, please email me. There’s a link to the right. Thanks!
* The Boy has 2 bullshit phrases he uses to cover all of life’s contingencies. “Wabi” literally means quirks and anomalies arising from the process of construction, which add uniqueness and elegance to the object. To the Boy, wabi is what happens when he forgets to take a photo out of his pocket before the wash, or when I knit something horribly misshapen. Wabi is his excuse not to fix it, or to care when he wrecks it.
The other phrase is “way of the weir,” which he picked up when he was hitching a ride to the Glastonbury Festival in ’94. A weir is a small overflow dam; to follow the way of the weir is to travel like water: without planning ahead, finding what you need from moment to moment to moment. Way of the weir is invoked when we have just driven away from the house and I realize that I’ve forgotten my camera. “Way of the weir,” the Boy says, and refuses to turn around. We do not follow the way of the weir when the Boy’s toothbrush or wallet is missing.
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Don't make me send out the Blake. He doesn't listen to *anyone.*