Why Shibui and All That Jazz?

Shibui

In "Eat, Pray, Love," Elizabeth Gilbert writes about a friend in Rome who said that every person has a word. At first she couldn't come up with hers, but later on, in India, she came up with some sanskrit word I can't remember. Her word isn't the point. The point is, I've been trying to think of my word, and I'm surprised it took me a couple of months, because I've long had a special affinity with the word "shibui" (shi-BOO-ee). It's a Japanese word, which suits me. I love the onomatopoeic quality of the Japanese language, and I have a soft spot for the tatami-and-spare-flower-arrangement Japanese aesthetic. It's admittedly kind of pretentious to have a foreign word as "my" word, but pretension corresponds more or less, too.

I'm not sure if this is the definition a linguist would give, but here's how I'll define "shibui:" it's that tingly sensation that is the physical manifestation of feeling deeply touched by the wonder and amazement of it all. A frisson that makes you take a deep breath just to pull more of the outside inside yourself. Shibui describes both the sensation and the object that inspires the sensation.

When I'm at my best, at my most in-touch with myself and my world, this is the sensation I feel. And, at those moments, I vividly remember the first time I heard that word, and understood it instantly, from my friend Mie in Japan, when I was 17 years old: "Shibui, ne?"

And, All That Jazz

So, then there's this Joan Baez song, "Children and All That Jazz." It's a Day In The Life sort of song, all about the run-around of life with kids, so much fun, so many tears, and collapsing exhausted at the end of the day.

You get the picture. There's me at my best, inhaling and exuding wonder, and there's me the rest of the time, melting into a puddle at the end of a long day. I'm hoping this blog will help me pull those two "me's" together.