This is a piece about beauty . . .
I was driving upstate and heading northwest to a destination far beyond the reaches of the city or suburban life.
Tall tree-covered mountains were on either side of the road. My windows were opened to allow the air to filter through and give me a taste of that early autumn breeze.
It is drives like this that cause me to change my definitions and descriptions of beauty.
I drove passed farmlands and pastures. I went across bridges that stretched over moving rivers and streams. I kept the radio off to enjoy the redeeming sound of silence. Any other noise at this time would have been nothing more than interference.
I have decided that beauty is not what I have been taught. Trips like this one and the reasons I took it is enough to put life into perspective.
I want to know exactly what it means to be beautiful. I want to feel this way and live like this. To beautiful, one needs to understand beauty—and to understand beauty, one needs to be able to identify it without being fooled by the fake or plastic.
On my way to the wake of a young man,I recognized the fragile existence of life. I understood for the moment that nothing is certain and tomorrow is never guaranteed.
I drove passed a farm to find an older man. I could see him from the distance. He was gray-haired, a white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He drove along on a large green tractor with large black wheels in the rear with large yellow rims to support them and smaller wheels in the front. Behind him was a big red barn with a white silo behind it—a domed top covered the silo, and white, flat wooden fences sectioned off the man’s property. Overhead, the sunlight shone down and hunks of white clouds left shadows on the ground. Of all this—this was beautiful.
I want to feel like I imagine that older man felt. I want to be like him; alone on a tractor beneath a blue sky with patches of pillowy clouds slowly moving through a pre-October sky. I want to feel the way I imagine he felt as he drove slowly across the hilly concourse—the grass as green as I’ve ever seen and cows of different colors in the background, some brown, some black, and some were tan, lingering and lazily feeding on the grass.
Everything on this farm seemed so alive and yet, so simple and undecorated. There was nothing else around but mountains and wide open fields. There were no buildings of any kind and nothing that ties this form of civilization to the technology of today.
There were no other houses anywhere in sight, which means there weren’t any neighbors to keep up with and nobody else to impress. There was nothing else to this man and his farm, accept for his pride of ownership.
Everything seemed so beautiful and clean. I want to feel the way I imagine this man felt.
I want to understand beauty. I want to be able to define it perfectly and recognize its perfection while hidden beneath cover-ups and make-up. Like her. To me, she is better without make up because this is really who she is.
Beauty is a woman when she stares off into nothingness with a momentary look of sadness—lamenting and painful, yet she is still so unbelievably beautiful. And when her face lifts to the light and the watery whites twinkle to accentuate the color of her eyes, I swear this is what I imagine the first sunrise must have looked like. This is beauty.
This is when she stares off and the expression on her face and porcelain skin resembles to me the look of Holy Mary, Mother of God. And when she weeps the world rains. And when she smiles, not even the heart of the sun could warm me as much.
This is beauty
Beauty is her soft skin with thin-fingered hands. Even when her hands barely touch me, I can feel them. I can feel the vibration machine tingle inside of me and for the moment—I think of nothing else.
Beauty is mother and the milk from her bosom, for with it, she can feed the world. Beauty is woman for with nothing else but the sound of her voice; all can be healed, if not forgotten.
Wholeheartedly, life without a woman is like land without scenery; it is desolate and absent—loveless and unmemorable.
If I am to find my Nirvana and free myself from the endless circles of life, which overlap like tiny reincarnations of faults and fears, then I must first open my eyes to the abound miracles that we all too frequently overlook. I must see what I would rather look away from. I must look without fear. As it is with life; all must go. Without this, no one would be reborn in the afterlife,
If I am to find beauty and free myself from the descriptions and definitions that kept me tied to the wrong conclusions; then I must be more aware of how simple beauty is.
Beauty is a child for they have yet to be destroyed by hopelessness. Beauty is a son grown into adulthood. And of course, beauty is a father standing proudly as he reports to the world, “That’s my boy!”
Beauty is a dream, for without them, one would be lost in the sameness of complacency. Beauty is a prayer, a belief, and a scripture.
Beauty is faith without sight. Beauty is the word of the Lord . . .
“For if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believeth in thine heart that God hath raised Him from the dead, thou shalt be saved. For with the heart of man believeth unto righteousness; and with the mouth confession is made unto salvation. For the scriptures saith, ‘Whosoever in him shall not be ashamed’.” (Romans 10:10-12)
I want to see life this way. I want to feel the breast of my faith and in such, I will not be afraid, nor will I wallow in the face of despair or give in to the whispers of temptation.
I want to see the world plain, simple, and without the need for constant decoration. I want to see this beauty in myself and understand my gifts as well as my value.
I want to feel as if I belong instead of tussle with the monotony and struggle to find my place in the circle.
I want to stand on my own two feet without feeling concerned about my balance or worry about my ability to stand without using a crutch.
I want to stay away from waste; I want to keep myself from the uselessness of arguments and refrain from allowing the opinions of others to dictate my facts. I want to feel more than average and better myself at the next turn so that when I look back at myself and who I was, as well as where I came from; I want to see myself with a sense of pride and say, “This is the mark I left on the world.”
This is beauty.
Beauty is a sense of awareness without the need to advertise or commercialize my qualities as a way to hide my imperfections. Moreover, beauty is imperfect. It is real and broken. Beauty comes with cracks and fractures—making it unique, and thus distinguished by our own unique characteristics, like fingerprints, we are equally unparalleled to each other—and beautiful in our own way.
This is beauty . . .