I find the world most beautiful in miracles. Very grand, I know, but I’ll work back to this.
When my children and I play in the backyard, after the toys are tired and, typically, put to bed (with pillows and blankets; by my girls, of course I’m too mature for that I assure you) we turn to grass and rocks, flowers about us: they seeing beauty. I’m always with the teaching; the photosynthesis, a tectonic whatever, water cycles, blathering grown-up jargon that finds astonishment that these things are that to me.
I have learned the world is process, evolution, entropy; concept and execution, refinement, analysis, deconstruction, in a phrase the sum of minutiae, the sum of trees in the forrest. Now I wonder why I think that is the world and why my children are so much smarter than I am. The world is a gleam in their eyes and is made to serve them (and I does so, willingly). So impractical, children.
So grown-ups change the world, make it practical, useful, improve everything. My children still see beyond man’s manipulation; statues, monuments, jewels don’t inspire them anymore than natural beauty, and as I reflect on that, seem contrived to serve a concept, an amalgamation of beauty, a marketing scheme, ideas grown-ups are good at and less about the world beyond us. I know the glint of mica, a glow of pyrite, a crystal are only process of nature
but how are they only found beauty and how are they found only?
My consolation is in house cleaning: as I straighten up, I find old flowers in Dixie cups and rocks, still dirty still glowing, on coffee tables. I have not yet turned them into man’s concepts only for my kids, but they’re still young and I am relentless.
Ultimately, I’ve learned, all the universe will be the dust from which it came; so lively into space to turn from pure energy to matter and then no matter at all. Process, nature, the hand of God: any name you choose, they are only names after all. Every thought of man and every action as well is dust and forgotten. Will this writing from me be turned by a process into a sparkle on stone? What thought of God could conceive of such a thing or, perhaps, that is all that could?