This post first appeared on Medium
For Father’s Day my wife gave me a plate. Actually, two of them - one for each of us. She said it was a symbol of my new life.
“Which new life is that?” I asked. She didn’t answer. She knew I knew.
I like my new plates. They are solid, made of heavy porcelain by Hakusan of Japan. More elliptical than round in shape and deep but not so deep as to be a bowl.
They appear slightly off-kilter. Irregular. That is why they appealed to me when I saw them about a year ago at a shop in Venice Beach.
Soetsu Yanagi writes,
“Why should one reject the perfect in favor of the imperfect? The precise and perfect carries no overtones, admits of no freedom; the perfect is static and regulated, cold and hard. We in our own human imperfections are repelled by the perfect, since everything is apparent from the start and there is no suggestion of the infinite. Beauty must have some room, must be associated with freedom. Freedom, indeed, is beauty. The love of the irregular is a sign of the basic quest for freedom.”
My family of five and I spent three months earlier this year traveling in Asia and Europe renting homes through AirBnb.
These houses and apartments were sparsely furnished.They only had a few dishes and no automatic dishwasher. Each of us would wash our own plate, cup and utensils after each meal so we would have something clean to eat off of for the next one.
We followed this wash-your-own-plate routine from Japan to Korea to Italy and on to other parts of Europe. We learned how easy it could be to live out of one roller bag each. We also realized the five of us could get along in much smaller spaces than we had become accustomed to in Idaho.
My oldest son’s backpack was stolen in Germany. It contained some of his most precious belongings - laptop, camera, iPod, Nintendo DS, sketchbook. We had another month to go on our trip and he was left with his clothes and his phone.
We shared our electronics with him, taking turns on our laptops and iPads.
When I returned to Idaho, I found the amount of things we owned overwhelming. It had felt so liberating to be able to pick up and move from one country to the next, each of us carrying everything we needed in a roller bag and backpack.
Now we were again anchored down with stuff.
But it is nice stuff. I have long since given away the junk I don’t need or want.
What remains has personal meaning. These items bring back fond memories - like the platform rocker that belonged to my grandpa where he used to sit and offer me at age six a plug of tobacco to chew. I never had the courage to take him up on his offer.
Now the chair sits in my office, a crack in its frame, my dog’s favorite napping place.
There are dozens of books that are out of print that I still refer to on occasion. There are journals, photo albums, heirlooms, art, antiques.
These are imperfect items, worn down by time. They have an inner beauty - shibui is the Japanese term. They are beautiful because I chose them and cared for them. They are imbued with personal significance because they connect me to my past and to loved ones long gone.
Still, the freedom of a two-plate existence beckons.
How does one balance this freedom to pick up and live anywhere with the comfort of a carefully curated home base?
I am going to find out.
We have sold our house and are readying to sell our farm where we have a second home.
We vacate this house in mid-August, but haven’t found a new place to live. It will be smaller by half.
There will be a winnowing. What we keep will only be what we value and need the most.
Then perhaps we will cut our space in half again, until we find the perfect blend between freedom and comfort.
A world where we only own what is most dear, precious and useful. Including two off-kilter Japanese plates.
