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Sport 39: 2011
Wabi-Sabi
Wabi-Sabi
I was thirty-three before I learned
people stuck in snow
can die from dehydration.
I would melt icicles
on my tongue for you, resist
the drinking down, drip it
into you. Then repeat, repeat
until my lips were raw.
Deep snow squeaks. We
stop on the Desert Road
because of the snow. You
throw snowballs at the
‘Warning: Army Training Area’ sign.
I take photographs of
icicles on tussock.
When we drive up the Desert Road
we lose National Radio, we lose
cellphone reception, we lose
all hope. I was thirty-seven before
I considered not trying to always fix
things. I read an article in the New Yorker
about Wabi-Sabi—the beauty in the
broken and the worn. The integrity
of the utilitarian object.
But then there was another article
about a woman flying to Mexico
to be put in a coma
page 305
so she can wake up mended. ‘It is
like rebooting a computer,’ said the doctor.
Despite Wabi-Sabi, I want that.
To live in snow and not be thirsty.
I want good reception all the way
up the country. I want a shiny, clean
version of myself. Hibernate,
closedown, restart.