Showing posts with label John Keats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label John Keats. Show all posts
The Beauty of the Season
Last week, as I sat in church, I had a revelation.
What better place for that?
I'll admit that, as I sat, my mind wandered back to the Saturday night just before when I had sat in the living room of some dear friends, gaping at their Christmas tree as it slowly came together. I tied silver glittered ribbon to painted glass orbs and handed them off to find their way onto the artificial branches. The white lights set those orbs afire as they spun slowly, mindlessly, gently back and forth before coming to rest in the soft light.
I was so entranced with the beauty of it, I was momentarily afraid to speak for fear of spoiling the beauty.
I love white lights, and colored glass, and little stars, and white-glitter snowflakes, and garlands, and candles, and carols, and snow, and bundled people, mittens, scarves, hats, coats... I love it all so much sometimes I think my heart will burst...
Yet, while sitting in church, thinking back on the tree, I suddenly feel a bit guilty... that stuff is not what Christmas is about. Christmas is about the Savior, about His birth, about His Atonement, death, and resurrection. It is about His love, and God's love and what they mean for me in my life...
And then I hear Keats in my head saying "Beauty is Truth, Truth Beauty" and I think: I love those beautiful things because of the Truth that they represent. If Beauty is a sort of abstract Truth-- something you can't quite put your finger on, but can sense nonetheless-- then the lights, the garlands, the snow, the music, the glitter-- by their very nature all mean: He loves you, He wants you to be happy, He will help you to be happy, fear not, love your neighbor, love your family, rise above who you are now to become who you want to be.... and do all of this because over 2000 years ago, a beautiful woman gave birth to the beautiful son of a beautiful God who loved you enough to give up everything for you-- and I can't think of any Truth more beautiful than that.
Merry Christmas, my friends.
Golden Hour: Just Me, and the Ants, and God
I feel as though I'd do myself, and my reflective nature, an injustice if I did not write about anniversaries at some point this weekend. So here I am: thinking, writing, listening to "Reign of Love" by Coldplay. You could say seeking inspiration, or just basking in the simple candor of a fair Sunday afternoon. The two are the same as far as I am concerned.
Yesterday marked one year since I received my degree, and two months since I did a 180 in my life and decided to move back to Provo. Today is six months since I started my job.
Yesterday I bought my first car and moved, again. I think from now on, every year I must do something life-changing on August 13th. It's odd, that no matter how hard I tried to find the car that made the most sense, in the end I just bought the one that felt like my car when I drove it. Perhaps it's not so odd at that. I am a woman, after all.
I really am not in the mood to stroll down memory lane right now. I know that my saying so is probably triggering cardiac arrest for some of my readers. I'm not sure when the last time was that I was blogging and didn't feel like strolling down memory lane. Especially this weekend, when I have such an obvious excuse. I usually like to be dramatic when I reach milestones in my life--I reach back into the recesses of my mind and pull out some long string of memories, with which I measure my progress.
Today I am a little lost. Unsure of where I am, I am not able to measure "how far I've come". It is like waking up, late afternoon, in an unfamiliar field all by oneself. Perhaps it is likely to be a scary situation, and almost surely, as the sun begins to set, it will be. But, for now, all is serene, the light is perfect. It's "Golden Hour" when the day's tasks are over, the night has not yet set in, and the aesthetic begins to exist almost for its own sake. (note I say here 'almost'. I have my own theories on the subject of the independent nature of aesthetic pleasure, not to be delved into today).
(Insert here a mental picture of a chapel out by itself in a rich field [November Rain-esque])
Like that.
I feel that the word "inspiration" is often pushed into a corner and made to behave. As if people think something can only be inspirational if it is the bible, or has a strong moral premise. Surely these things are inspirational, and I do not seek to discount them here. I am merely suggesting that we broaden our usage of the term inspirational.
The other day, I was inspired almost beyond functioning by a small colony of ants. I was spending some time at a favorite haunt of mine, where I always find inspiration of some sort. No matter how hot it is, it is always the perfect temperature under the trees, on the grass. I had finished eating a bit of bread and a few crumbs had fallen to the grass. I crumbled them near the hill and watched as the ants encountered each bit of bread and struggled to take it to one of the many little pock-marks in the earth at the base of the tree. I hardly knew myself in that moment, yet there I was. No phone ringing. No emails to return. Just me, and the ants, and God.
Have you ever seen a collection of objects and suddenly wanted to create? A stack of books, letters tied with a ribbon, and suddenly I am on fire with bits of ideas that never fully ripen into mature creative sparks. Little spurts of inspiration--that sensing of something of beauty in surroundings that encourages an equal reaction in the soul. Inspiration. To breath into. To enliven, quicken.
We do so many things every day that do the opposite of inspire. They degrade and wear away at our sensitivities like so much cancerous rust. Sometimes we cannot help doing these things. They are our 'bread and butter', and we have made the adult decision to engage in these activities because we must. So it comes to be that if our souls are to survive, we must use the remainder of the day seeking inspiration in its many forms, and not wasting our time snorting baby formula. Golden hour is for inspiration, Golden Hour is ours before the day is ended. Golden hour is for lovers, mystics, poets, prophets, philosophers, sages, children, mothers and fathers, students and masters. Golden hour is for honest souls seeking transcendence. How often we let it go by without so much as a thought to its pleasures. How often we are "too tired" to find happiness in the time God afforded us to find it?
We are not to spend the day in indulgence, and doing "whatever we want". We are to accomplish what we must, but at the end of the day we still have our souls to answer for. Of all the mindless media and entertainment we could choose from, we ought to spend even our free time--especially our free time-- inspiring ourselves to some greatness, no matter how simple that greatness.
After all, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever" -John Keats
Yesterday marked one year since I received my degree, and two months since I did a 180 in my life and decided to move back to Provo. Today is six months since I started my job.
Yesterday I bought my first car and moved, again. I think from now on, every year I must do something life-changing on August 13th. It's odd, that no matter how hard I tried to find the car that made the most sense, in the end I just bought the one that felt like my car when I drove it. Perhaps it's not so odd at that. I am a woman, after all.
I really am not in the mood to stroll down memory lane right now. I know that my saying so is probably triggering cardiac arrest for some of my readers. I'm not sure when the last time was that I was blogging and didn't feel like strolling down memory lane. Especially this weekend, when I have such an obvious excuse. I usually like to be dramatic when I reach milestones in my life--I reach back into the recesses of my mind and pull out some long string of memories, with which I measure my progress.
Today I am a little lost. Unsure of where I am, I am not able to measure "how far I've come". It is like waking up, late afternoon, in an unfamiliar field all by oneself. Perhaps it is likely to be a scary situation, and almost surely, as the sun begins to set, it will be. But, for now, all is serene, the light is perfect. It's "Golden Hour" when the day's tasks are over, the night has not yet set in, and the aesthetic begins to exist almost for its own sake. (note I say here 'almost'. I have my own theories on the subject of the independent nature of aesthetic pleasure, not to be delved into today).
(Insert here a mental picture of a chapel out by itself in a rich field [November Rain-esque])
Like that.
I feel that the word "inspiration" is often pushed into a corner and made to behave. As if people think something can only be inspirational if it is the bible, or has a strong moral premise. Surely these things are inspirational, and I do not seek to discount them here. I am merely suggesting that we broaden our usage of the term inspirational.
The other day, I was inspired almost beyond functioning by a small colony of ants. I was spending some time at a favorite haunt of mine, where I always find inspiration of some sort. No matter how hot it is, it is always the perfect temperature under the trees, on the grass. I had finished eating a bit of bread and a few crumbs had fallen to the grass. I crumbled them near the hill and watched as the ants encountered each bit of bread and struggled to take it to one of the many little pock-marks in the earth at the base of the tree. I hardly knew myself in that moment, yet there I was. No phone ringing. No emails to return. Just me, and the ants, and God.
Have you ever seen a collection of objects and suddenly wanted to create? A stack of books, letters tied with a ribbon, and suddenly I am on fire with bits of ideas that never fully ripen into mature creative sparks. Little spurts of inspiration--that sensing of something of beauty in surroundings that encourages an equal reaction in the soul. Inspiration. To breath into. To enliven, quicken.
We do so many things every day that do the opposite of inspire. They degrade and wear away at our sensitivities like so much cancerous rust. Sometimes we cannot help doing these things. They are our 'bread and butter', and we have made the adult decision to engage in these activities because we must. So it comes to be that if our souls are to survive, we must use the remainder of the day seeking inspiration in its many forms, and not wasting our time snorting baby formula. Golden hour is for inspiration, Golden Hour is ours before the day is ended. Golden hour is for lovers, mystics, poets, prophets, philosophers, sages, children, mothers and fathers, students and masters. Golden hour is for honest souls seeking transcendence. How often we let it go by without so much as a thought to its pleasures. How often we are "too tired" to find happiness in the time God afforded us to find it?
We are not to spend the day in indulgence, and doing "whatever we want". We are to accomplish what we must, but at the end of the day we still have our souls to answer for. Of all the mindless media and entertainment we could choose from, we ought to spend even our free time--especially our free time-- inspiring ourselves to some greatness, no matter how simple that greatness.
After all, "A thing of beauty is a joy forever" -John Keats
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