Looking for beauty—
Amidst mounds of laundry, dirty floors and the peace-stealing noise of a football game.
I need a story, I need a song; a small handful of beauty is all I seek; enough to get me through today.
Eyes graze paints—blank canvas. Hands are itching to fill it with color, but I am not ready. Sketches still in my head, ideas incomplete.
So I turn away.
This unanswered call for beauty pounds in my head, places bitter words on my tongue, ready to fall should the opportunity arise.
Alone. I need to be.
I escape to the quiet.
Laundry undone. Floors still chunky. The question of dinner niggling.
These things must wait. The world must stop.
For if I don’t find a small piece of beauty, I might start crying and not be able to stop.
Then I see it.
This old book.
Untouched since college days. Days before children and husband and regular meals.
These dead poets call out to me.
I run my fingers through the onion skin pages.
This is the beauty that I grasp.
I inhale it with my eyes.
It nourishes me, the breath of life.
To the Evening Star by William Blake
Thou fair-hair’d angel of the evening, Now, while the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves; and, while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wind sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver. Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares thro’ the dun forest:
The fleeces of our flocks are cover’d with
They sacred dew: protect them with thine influence.
I look out the window and see the blue curtains of the sky being drawn.
Silver dew beginning to condense on shimmery leaves.
The moon—a tiny sliver cresting over the trees.
I see beauty everywhere.
I see the beauty of my life.
These words have the power to open my eyes, to renew my heart.
As silver moonsickle rises, I am thinking not of Blake’s Evening Star. It is the beauty of my bright Morning Star that makes me weep.
Beauty. He has sprinkled it everywhere.
Sometimes, I forget.
These eyes need the scales stripped away. Sometimes it takes an old dead poet, or a song, perhaps a story to remind me how beautiful He is.
“I, Jesus, have sent my angel to give you this testimony for the churches. I am the Root and the Offspring of David, and the bright Morning Star.” –Rev. 22:16