Beauty

I've been thinking about the transcient nature of beauty. I'm in awe of certain works of art--music, painting, literature. I take too much for granted--the swaying trees I see outside my window, the pine-studded hill across the street. I'm in the process of redefining. Although I teach beauty, I often miss it in my own life--the weathered face of my mechanic, the trickle and rush of the river. Sometimes a moment happens in my writing group--a kind of synergy where we are quiet with delight at what one of us has created. I feel pride that I'm a part of this--that I have the ability to translate what I see and feel into words. Whether I gain any more recognition for this is less important than why I write. I write to understand. I write to honor myself and the world around me. I used to think it was narcisstic to be a writer. Now I feel much the opposite. Tapping into emotion is what artists do, and listeners, readers all receive--an introspective moment, comfort, the feeling that there is a common humanity. I want beauty to be abundant, not limited to fleeting images of dark eyes, perfect skin, curved petals. How stingy our culture can be in its definition of beauty. How can I broaden my own world to embrace imperfection? Can I see the height and depth of loneliness, the width of a promise?