The Necessity of Beauty

From the age of 18 I aspired to be a midwife. I read anything I could get my hands on, took courses, attended conferences, wrote academic papers and editorials on the subject, and apprenticed with a midwife. I spent seven years convinced that this was my path. And then, one day, I unexpectedly and suddenly put it down, walked away, and never looked back.

I am a recovering rationalist. I grow vegetables not flowers. My rational mind always insisted that in comparison to notable causes beauty and creativity were secondary. Yet the people who I admire most, notably my brother and my dear friends Rebecca and Bill, are artists. They courageously follow a path that is often unscripted. They walk a road with very few guarantees, little security, and minimal social rewards (non-profit execs tend to be more respected in our society it seems). And while I secretly wished I could let my fears go, my rational self wanted an orderly plan...with measurable goals and check lists!

Quietly at first, and now unabashedly, I am unveiling my passion for beauty like a bride. I am making love to landscapes with my camera-phone. My countertops with lavender-scented spray. My body with yoga. My soul with stillness and giggles. My home with flower-filled vases and a neatly made bed. My hands with the soil I work them in daily... not that any of this is new, hardly at all, but something inside me has shifted. 

I am making love with the world, gently and slowly. Savoring and relishing. Taking it in and surrendering to it with excitement and wonder. Living as though beauty is not a luxury but a necessity.

Rudabega never seems to forget to do this...with mountain trails, butt scratches, and the disgusting things she inevitably rolls in.

Found these vintage burlap sacks this week. Stoked about this new project material.

Desert blooms.

A bouquet from Daphne. Girl has a way with flowers.

On my morning walk down to the garden.

Picking grubs out of the garden. Their juicy bodies get me all sorts of deliciously squirmy.

Scraping the last inch of chicken manure for the final push on my new garden beds. I wondered out loud to a friend the other day if Em could part with some of her manure and he said, "In this valley it'd be easier to get a few chickens or a goat from her than priority to her poop pile. Farmers are lining up for that shit!"

Getting out of town for the day and looking pretty urban.