The White Swan

Wabi-sabi is a Japanese aesthetic that finds beauty in imperfection, impermanence, and the natural cycle of growth and decay. It finds great beauty in an object that has been repaired, where the essence of the repair, its imperfection, is both a celebration and a contemplation.

A crack in a broken pot is often repaired with gold.

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"Father," Abigail called, "come quickly. The Swan has injured her wing and can't fly. Come see."

The Carver put down his tools in a box with a green velvet lining, to keep the metal shining and to prevent the sharpness of the blades getting blunt. He brushed his hands down the leather patches on his pants, and went out to find his daughter.

Abigail was down by the lake, leaning out from the edge, trying to reach a white Swan. "She's frightened, won't come to me. Can you reach her?" The beautiful bird swam slowly, one wing wide and outstretched, dragging along the water, the curve of her neck way down low. The Carver reached for her, but she was too far from the bank, so he couldn't.

He stood, and quickly took all of his clothes off, to stand naked before the Swan and his daughter. Abigail looked, and was proud of her father, standing there so tall. She didn't look away from the long sway of him, nor from the thick thatch of hair.

"Go save her," she pleaded. "I'll run to the house for two towels."

The Carver slowly entered the lake, taking care not to slip or to fall. The Swan circled in the water, but didn't move away. He held out his fingers to her, and coaxed her near with a quiet tck tck of his tongue, until he stood next to the bird, in water deep up to his waist. He gently drew her body to his, and the Swan let him hold her. Her injured wing trailed on the water like ice snow lies on the ground. The feathers were long. The wing was broken.

The Carver held the Swan close and he moved back to the shore, where Abigail had laid a towel on the ground, and she held the other in her hand. He climbed from the edge with the greatest of care, and the Swan stayed still, even while he placed her down.

"She'll live, Abigail. Let's get her up to the barn."

He carried the Swan there, carefully held in his arms, the water from the lake running down his back and fine legs. Abigail quickly followed, and she made a wide nest of straw, and the Carver lay the bird down. Abigail stroked the Swan's neck to sooth her, and the Carver made up a splint, to straighten the wing the best way he could.

"We'll care for her, until she can fly," said the Carver, and they did. Every day Abigail would take the Swan water, take her food, and coax her to eat. Often at the end of the day, the Carver would find the girl asleep with the Swan, with her arm around the bird, and the Swan's good wing over her.

"There's one feather, won't mend," said Abigail. "It's still broken. She'll never be able to fly."

The Carver examined the feather, looking at it closely, then sat for a very long while. The Swan's head rested on his thigh. I can only try, he thought, and he did.

"What are you making, Father?" Abigail asked that night as she watched him under the candlelight.

"I'm carving," he replied, "from my very best wood, and my heart."

And for three days and nights he worked, and Abigail brought food and she fed him. He carved slowly, whittling the tiniest slivers of wood from the best piece he had, and he carved a feather from the wood, every frond, every fibre, every tiniest piece. Finally he was finished, and he painted it gold to protect it.

And he slept for twenty-four hours, without dreams at all, unless they were of the Swan, and she flew.

He took the feather made of wood to the bird, and stretched her wing gently out. And with the slowest care and patient love and attention, he removed the broken feather and replaced it with the one he had carved. When he was done, the golden feather shone brightly under the sun, glistening bright against the Swan's feathers of white. The Swan entwined her neck around his and they lay on the ground and she covered his body with her wing. The Child came, and they slept that way for a while.

The next day, the Carver took the Swan back down to the lakeside. She stood, flexed her wings, stretched them out twice, then slid herself into the water. When she swam out to the centre of the lake and back to the shore, her wings folded neatly, exactly as they should.

The Carver and Abigail watched, standing there by the shore, and they saw the Swan run on the water and take off and fly, they watched her fly. The beautiful bird flew higher, up over their heads, and the golden feather glistened and shone bright gold in the sun, flashing bright.

And when the Swan flew at night, up high near the moon, the flashing bright, it was silver.

© ElectricBlue 2025