Saving Democracy

I had a completely different post all written and ready to go, but after Trump supporters stormed the Capitol building, where Congress was doing the official Electoral College vote tally…After today, I wanted to talk about something else. And it might be a bumpy ride, because this is still a project, where I’m trying to learn about the Beautiful and True, and how they act on our lives, and how they drive us, and how they create meaning for us.

Like many Americans, I was glued to my TV and my feeds all afternoon, waiting to see how this would all play out. And there was an awful lot that seemed neither Beautiful nor True. In fact, most of what I witnessed seemed both ugly and based in lies — the physical violence; the violent speech and posturing and props; the casual assumption that these rioters could force their way into the Capitol specifically to disrupt the proceedings of an election they didn’t like; that more than likely, no harm would come to them during their “let’s pretend insurrection;” that they could walk away and go home feeling triumphant, like they’d made an awesome point and scared Congress and everyone else, which makes them big tough guys. And the whole premise for them being there — a stolen election — was a cynical lie from the very beginning.

I honestly don’t know what to make of people who seem to believe that intimidation and bullying wrapped up in the flag and patriotic jargon, that that is beautiful and true to them (I refuse to capitalize those words in this context). As I look at the world and try to figure how what the hell I’m seeing, especially in the last four years, especially in the last year, I have come to the conclusion that these people aren’t as driven by fear as I originally thought. Maybe fear is the basis for their primary belief systems, but I no longer think it’s actually driving their actions. They actively glory in aggression, like I might glory in a stunning piece of theatre. I think they find beauty in the chaos, the destruction, the exertion of their will over others. And I think they believe it is true that some people are better than others, and that’s just the way the world is.

Which has led me to an awful question: “Is it possible that all of this is beautiful and true to them?”

My working definition of Beautiful and True has been “that which grounds us and uplifts us.”

“Uplifts us.” I saw those rioters (insurrectionists) uplifted today. There was glory on their faces and joy in their sneers. I think they did find beauty in their actions, a harsh and vicious beauty, but a kind of beauty, nonetheless. That concept is abhorrent to me, and I really want someone to tell me I’m wrong about how they were feeling. But I don’t think I am.

“Grounds us.” Here’s where I took a breath. No. Think about the last time you felt really grounded. I would bet all the money I don’t have that you were very calm. You may also have been experiencing any number of emotions, as strong as a storm, but you were the rock they crashed upon, the roots they could not rip from the earth. A person can’t be both wound up and grounded. A person can’t be both agitated and grounded. A person can’t be screaming vicious hatred and be grounded.

Maybe the Trumpers on Capitol Hill that day thought they know what’s true. But it’s not Truth.

I’m glad to have that question settled. It’s been bugging me for a while.

Now, let me talk about a moment today that was Beautiful and True. That lifted my heart and grounded me. I’ve seen quite a bit of talk about these young women, so I know I’m not the only one who spotted it.

While the rioters (insurrectionists) were breaking in, while Representatives were escorted to safety, while Capitol guards pointed guns — fear and resolve comingled in their eyes (I’m sure they didn’t wake up this morning thinking they would be called upon to actively defend the Chamber against their fellow citizens) — while chaos tornadoed everywhere, Senate aides snatched up the boxes containing the Electoral College ballots and whisked them to safety.

Senator Jeff Merkeley of Oregon, who first tweeted this story and took the picture above, said if they hadn’t acted, “[the ballots] would have been burned by the mob.”

I’m sure that the vote could be reconstructed. That if the mob HAD burned the ballots, Congress still could have sorted out who is the next President. I’m confident there are backup systems in place to deal with mishap.

But that doesn’t diminish the symbolism of this act.

It wasn’t Senators who grabbed those boxes, it was their aides. Support staff. Assistants. They’re young, and eager, and patriotic, and proud of our democratic institutions. They were women.

Another picture shows two of them walking, side by side, each gripping one handle of the antique ballot box. They walked calmly, and if they were afraid, you couldn’t see it in their eyes. They were — what’s the word — grounded.

They are not lofty lawmakers, or people with the power of government in their hands. As far as a quick Google search reveals, Senate staffers swear no oaths to uphold the Constitution. And yet they were the ones who carried those ballots to safety.

Is that uplifting, or what?

I’m very drawn to the symbolism of these dedicated young women protecting the Will of the People. I’m picturing these staffers as if they were great heroes of mythical stories, rescuing sacred relics as barbarians burn the temple down around them.

THAT is Beautiful and True.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving is my second favorite holiday. I love the smells, the tastes, the excitement of gathering with loved ones (yes, even my introvert self). I love the simultaneous, nationwide act of taking a moment to be grateful for the good in our lives. I love baking my from-scratch, Grand-Marnier, death-by-butter apple pie every year, and I love the chicken noodles that the women in my family make better than anyone else. I love the fullness, the “oh my god, why did I eat that last bite?” I love trying to fight my way through several rounds of euchre when I really REALLY want to be taking a nap. I love the traditions, even the ones that never caught on with my family: football, parades.

I also confess to loving the story I was taught about it as a kid. There is still enduring power for me in the parable of helping the stranger, overcoming differences, gratitude for a kindness when it is most needed.

Thanksgiving is joyful, wonderful, and…complicated.

That parable about helping the stranger? Even as it warms my heart, I’m aware that it’s a myth that covers one of our nation’s greatest sins, one we still haven’t atoned for in any meaningful way. How do we reconcile a beautiful national ritual with the realities for Native Americans, not only historically, but now, this year, today?

And while we’re being real here, I also know that Thanksgiving can be personally fraught, even in a normal year. As a kid, I remember the frenzy of cooking and baking and burning and piles of dirty dishes that somebody has to clean up. I remember wrangling over the dress code (comfort vs. family representation), mom trying to corral us into the car in time while we searched frantically for a missing shoe, the unspoken but ever-present anxieties about expectations and judgments.

And forget about it if we were the hosts! I remember one Thanksgiving a few years ago…I can’t remember exactly what was going on, but there were extra life stressors and for the first time in a while, people were coming to OUR house. Maybe it was the first time we’d hosted since my parents had moved from the big house? I honestly can’t remember.

What I DO remember is Mom being insistent that everything look amazing. I had come home late the night before, and the living room was spotless. I could still see the tracks in the carpet left by a thorough and vigorous vacuuming. The next morning, right before the guests arrived, while the turkey was roasting in the oven and there was nothing left to cook, Mom asked me to vacuum the living room. Again. I’m pretty sure for the third time in two days.

That request had nothing to do with the actual cleanliness of the house. I was probably 30, and this was the moment I fully realized how stressful Thanksgiving could be. It’s a holiday that – for many – can be a wide-open door for shame and self-doubt.

Isn’t that fun?

A few more moments of realness, and then some light.

Thanksgiving can also be a time of great loneliness, where everyone else’s gatherings can make us feel even more isolated if we’re in a period of our lives where our ties to family, friends, community may be at an ebb. And, again, that’s in a normal year.

This year, many of us are choosing not to spend Thanksgiving with our loved ones. I’m not. With COVID cases rampaging through Chicago, and frankly, the rest of the U.S., it didn’t feel safe or responsible to me or to Mom. Thank God she’s a stubborn, unsentimental Indiana kind of woman, who said to me just last night on the phone, “It’s just a day! We can do Thanksgiving in May!”

I’m not nearly so unsentimental. It hurts not be there.

Maybe you’ve made a similar choice, and you’re feeling it, too. Or maybe you’ve experienced loss this year, or extra hardship, and you’re sensitive to the glowy showy performative gratitude that can be a part of Thanksgiving. Or maybe you’re gathering with a big family, as if this were any other year, knowing that it’s not.

It’s a lot.

How do we begin to find the beautiful and true, when we’re in the middle of a holiday-induced emotional muck?

1. Stay open to simple joys. Things that have everything to do with your senses and nothing at all to do with the holiday. The feel of freshly made dough under your fingers. The deep satisfaction of finally scratching that place on your back that’s been itching. The warm softness of your favorite blanket. Ooooo…the warmth of sheets right from the dryer! The smell of rich coffee. Take a moment to ground yourself in something that is pleasing to your senses.

2. Get outside. All of my interviews show very clearly that nature is one of the main ways we experience the beautiful and true. So, get out there. Breathe a little fresh air. Move your body a bit. Make it a goal to notice one new thing about your neighborhood, something you’ve passed by a thousand times but haven’t paid attention to. “Huh, that’s a weird tree, it looks like it’s dancing!”

3. Do something kind for someone else. Keep it small and easy. Hold the door for someone. Send a card to a friend you haven’t spoken to in a while. Bake surprise cookies for a neighbor. The funny thing about small kindnesses is that they remind us that we have the strength and the power to influence someone else’s life for the better. It’s not a full antidote for anxiety and depression, but it can give your spirit and your sense of self-worth a little boost. And sometimes that’s enough to get you through.

4. Look for small positivities. Look especially at the minute details. The crinkly eyes of a genuine smile. The little butt wiggle of a cat about to pounce. How satisfyingly symmetrical the pictures on your wall are. Actively look for the beauty around you.

Here’s the one thing I’ve learned so far about experiencing the beautiful and true. Sometimes these things are so big and glorious that you can’t help but be swept up in into the experience. But much more often, they’re subtle, camouflaged, waiting for us to notice them.

But they’re there. All around. I promise. We just have to pay attention.

Be well, this holiday. I am grateful for you.

The Opposite of Beauty

Sometimes, when you’re trying to talk about really big concepts—like, oh I dunno, Beauty and Truth—they can be hard to pin down. Maybe impossible.

They resist attempts at definition, in any way that is meaningful or says much at all about the way we actually experience them.

We can see them more clearly, perhaps, if we look at them indirectly. Through art, certainly, which you’ll see me talk about a LOT on this blog and in the podcast. But also by trying to figure out their opposites.

Let’s start with Beauty, as I often do.

What is the opposite of Beauty? If you leaped immediately to “ugliness,” well, so did I at first. But I’ve come to the conclusion that maybe that’s not entirely accurate.

When in doubt, I go to the Merriam Webster:

1a: offensive to the sight 

b: offensive or unpleasant to any sense

2: morally offensive or objectionable

3a: likely to cause inconvenience or discomfort

b: surly, quarrelsome

4: frightful, dire

That second definition—morally offensive—that one might be an opposite of Beauty. But the others, what they’re really talking about is something that evokes disgust, that is repellent. Beauty attracts, therefore it’s opposite must repel, right?

But what about things that are repulsive at first, but as we get to know them, as we pay attention to them, as we become accustomed to them, we see Beauty in them?

Famous example: the folktale of Beauty and the Beast. Has this ever happened to you? I know I have met people that I loathed at first, would rather break a toe than spend a minute with, who eventually became some of my dearest friends. How many romance novels are based on the premise of hate at first sight, that becomes passion, that becomes love? Like…all of them?

Spiders. I used to think they were gross and scary, and then I get to know them a little. Learned they’re not nearly as dangerous (most of them) as we think. That the way they move is SUPER INTERESTING (it’s a whole hydraulic system). And now spiders are fascinating and beautiful to me.

Maybe something like this has happened to you, too?

So, what I’m saying is that I don’t know that ugly is the opposite of beauty. Maybe most of the things we find ugly are really Beauty that we just haven’t paid enough attention to, or approached with enough curiosity. More on that in a later post.

No, I actually think the opposite of Beauty is…”meh.”

Meh is a thing mass-produced. You would never call a McDonald’s cheeseburger “beautiful,” even if you happen to love it.

Meh is an event with no spark in it. A sermon that moves no one. A movie you forget immediately after you’ve watched it.

Meh is passionless. Worse than that, it’s intended to have no passion. It’s intended to blend in, to be unnoticeable, to make sure everyone is comfortable and a bit dull. Meh is servile and simultaneously egocentric.

Meh evokes…nothing.

What is the villain in The Neverending Story? A force called The Nothing. A creativity and life killer. A destroyer of vision. It is the “emptiness that is left” when people “lose their hopes and forget their dreams.” A vast and consuming “meh.”

What is the villain in A Wrinkle in Time? The It, a force for conformity. A force to dull the mind and the appetites, to make everything simple and identical and controllable. A brain without a body. (There will definitely be more on A Wrinkle in Time at a later date.

A collection of gifs from movies from Walt Disney Studios including A Wrinkle In Time, Christopher Robin, Mary Poppins Returns, Aladdin, The Lion King, and more!

Neither Beauty nor ugliness are any of that. Which is why I don’t think they’re opposites.

People often say that the opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. Very much like that.

Meh are all the things that are, y’know, just fine. They’re ok.

We need “meh” sometimes, for practical purposes. I’m looking at my coffee maker right now. It’s serviceable, the shape works for what it’s supposed to do. It’s entirely functional and looks all right on my counter. But there’s not much Beauty to it.

(Although, as I’m thinking about it, there is Beauty in how it works, in the inventioning mind that envisioned harnessing steam and drip.)

But the coffee maker itself? It’s pretty “meh.”

This Japanese-style siphon coffee maker that I just found online and am now coveting? Not “meh.”

Be cautious of “meh.” Our lives are made duller by “meh,” less interesting, less worthy of the shockingly little time we have in these bodies.

I’m not saying give up your coffee makers, or only buy the finest Italian leather shoes. Some things need to be serviceable and affordable.

I’m just saying…it’s good to be a little aware of the “meh.” It can drain you, like adding leeches to your bathwater.

Ok, that was gross. I just grossed myself out.

But I like the metaphor.

It’s not “meh.”

We Don’t Have Room for Small

I was gifted a bit of the Beautiful & True a couple of weeks ago, when my girlfriend loaned me her copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

In your life, is there a book, or a movie, or a piece of music, or a work of art—something where every moment seems to be speaking directly to you? As if the artist had created it specifically for you, just to help you see yourself strongly and clearly for a moment.

That was Jane Eyre for me, when I was a teenager. And it’s A Tree Grows in Brooklyn for my friend.

Which, of course, means I had to read it. And I’m so glad I did. It’s stunningly written, with sharply-drawn characters, a real generosity in its morality, and imagery that is both unpretentious and breath-catching. It was unflinching in its Truth and unhesitating in its Beauty and…oof. I could go on and on, honestly.

But beyond it being a truly great read, when someone hands me something as simple as a book and says, “Look, this is me!” I can’t refuse it. And why would I?

When a person offers you a piece of their Beautiful & True, it’s…well, it’s sacred. Literally. You have been gifted a peek at their soul, their most precious self, the tiny, infinite piece of them that is unique and holy and eternal. To reject that is unfathomable. To me, at least.

Of course, I have seen people offer up their Beautiful & True with tender hopefulness and joy, only to have someone dismiss it outright. Or mock it. Or smile and nod. Or be too wrapped up in themselves to recognize it (or care).

It’s happened to me. I’ll bet it’s happened to you, too.

I watched a friend extricate herself from a twenty- year marriage, because she could no longer stand her husband’s daily refusal of her Beautiful & True. She was growing into it, growing more centered and stronger and more joyful every day, and for some incomprehensible reason he wanted nothing to do with it. She was dying to share it with him, and all he had to do was not refuse the gift. But he did.

When we reject the Beautiful & True, or when someone rejects it in us, unless we are very fierce and strong like my married friend—it shrivels us. It makes us small.

We often associate “small” with size, but there is another meaning to “small”: insignificant, unimportant.

That version is most often used as a condescending insult. Do you remember that scene in Toy Story, when Woody—at the height of his frustration and jealousy with Buzz Lightyear—screams: “YOU. ARE. A. TOY!!!!!” And Buzz responds with: “You are a sad, strange little man.” Buzz wasn’t talking about Woody’s height, but—ultimately—about his lack of vision, the smallness of his spirit. The quote ends with, “You have my pity. Farewell.”

Buzz may have been wrong on the facts, but he wasn’t wrong on the Truth.

I’m a bit afield here, as per usual, but this is important.

Beautiful & True is about not allowing ourselves to be small. We don’t need small. The world doesn’t need small. Small is what gets us into trouble.

Small gets us police shootings and poisoned water and children in cages. Small gets us broken relationships and broken hearts, on scales both global and personal.

Ironically, small ends up taking up all the space.

That’s why I’m doing this blog and this podcast. Because simply by acknowledging the Beautiful & True, by allowing ourselves to be witnesses to it, we become more creative, more expansive, more whole.

I want that for myself. I want that for you. I want that for our world.

Because we don’t have room for small, anymore.

When Sorrows Like Sea Billows Roll

If you’ve been to a Christian, or even secular funeral in the past hundred years or so, chances are decent that you’ve heard “It Is Well,” a hymn written by Horatio Spafford in 1873 (music by Philip Bliss). If you don’t know it, take a listen here.

It’s a beloved hymn for funerals, because it manages to capture the enormity of grief, but also calmness, quiet, and hope.

“When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.”

It’s words are Christian, but—like all great art—the message of that first verse transcends sect or religion.

It was played at my own father’s funeral, eight years ago next week.

A life raft

I want to stay on this hymn for a moment, because the story behind it is worth telling.

In 1870, Horatio Spafford had a full, rich life. He probably would have called it “blessed.” He had a family—a wife (Anna) and five children—a very successful law practice in Chicago, real estate investments, the respect of the community. Then, his young son died, and shortly after in October 1871, he lost most of his fortune in the Great Chicago Fire. Two years later, he was starting to rebuild his life, literally. His family had booked a trip to Europe, scheduled to sail on the SS Ville du Havre. Just before departure, Horatio was forced to stay behind to deal with the rezoning of his investments, and his family sailed without him. He was to join them a few days later.

Nearing England, the Ville du Havre was struck by another ship and sank in 12 minutes, killing 226 people, including all four of Horatio’s remaining children. His wife Anna sent him a telegram with only two words: “Saved alone.”

Horatio immediately sailed to join her, and on the long crossing, he wrote the words to “It Is Well.”

“When sorrows like sea billows roll.”

Can you imagine writing that? On the deck of a ship, watching the same waves that took almost your entire family. He must have pictured his daughters drowning over and over during that crossing.

The refrain of the hymn repeats, almost like a mantra:

“It is well (it is well),
with my soul (with my soul),
It is well, it is well with my soul.”

We hear it as peace, thanks to Bliss’s music. But I think it must have been written in agony, a father’s struggle to hold onto the faith that had sustained him thus far. Words repeated over and over, a tiny life raft in a monstrous storm.

The Beauty in death?

American culture doesn’t deal well with death. In our movies, people die quickly and painlessly, or they die brutally but as a glorious sacrifice.

The realities are kept tidily behind the closed doors of hospital rooms or nursing homes. The messy, horrible details…not only does no one want to hear them, very few people want to even acknowledge they exist.

We do our best to push it away, hide it, ignore it. But death is a Truth.

I’m thinking about this today, because it is very close to the anniversary of my dad’s death, and it was not quick or painless or glorious or sacrificial. That’s not how a slow-moving cancer works.

I can tell you about the horrors of a loved body as it breaks down, and maybe I should, because I believe our culture would be better if we collectively dealt with our horror and terror and squeamishness. But I’m not going to, at least not in this post. These are among the most private memories I have, the most precious, the most meaningful. Maybe I’ll talk about them in a later post someday, when I’m more used to public vulnerability and feeling more courageous, but not today.

Instead, I want to talk about one moment of Beauty that I experienced during that time. There were many, as incongruous as they were powerful.

My Dad was a proud, strong man. His work had always been physical, and he spent most of his life in the Army, the National Guard, and the Army Reserves. (The image for this post is of a coffin medallion designated for military service.)

He was a drill sergeant. for God’s sake. In his spare time he was an amateur mechanic and, near the end of his life, a stock car driver on a dirt track. He gave hugs awkwardly, and was never casual with a touch. He was a man who always helped others and never, never asked help for himself.

But there came a time when he needed it, just to shuffle from the bed to the bathroom.

I remember the weight of his arm around my shoulder. I remember the feel of his back, swollen and squishy with fluid, under my hand. My mom under his other arm, both of us quietly careful to make our support both rock-solid and completely gentle. Matching our steps to his and to each other’s, vigilant to anything that might cause additional pain. Loaning him our physical strength for a bit, when his own was depleted.

There was Beauty in that effort. There was Beauty in getting to touch my father when he was most vulnerable, in being allowed past the strength and the pride. There was Beauty in learning to work together with mom, collaborating with her, even conspiring with her against a stubborn man, to try and provide whatever comfort and ease we could. There was Beauty in how we were suddenly forced to communicate in new ways, deeper and Truer ways than we were used to.

Beautiful isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always golden flowers against a deep blue sky.

Sometimes it’s awful.

But it still catches our breath and imprints itself on us. It finds a way to swell our hearts and give us joy, even if that joy is all mixed up with fear and grief.

Maybe especially if it’s all mixed up.

“It is well, it is well, with my soul.”

P.S. I could dedicate an entire post to my mom. I had often heard people described as “a rock” during hard times, but I’ve only ever seen it the once, and now I know exactly why that metaphor is so apt. Her strength and stamina were (and continue to be) inspiring.

Hard Truths

This post is a little delayed, because I needed a little time to figure out what to say.

In this blog, on this website, we’re talking about Beauty and Truth. And right now, in the U.S., we are confronting—again—some very hard truths about how unconscionably our black brethren are treated in this country.

Murdered for no reason.

Beaten and threatened for no reason.

Treated with suspicion for no reason.

Denied access to everything from education to polling sites for no reason.

(No reason other than the color of their skin, of course.)

Further, as a white woman, I don’t think I should be saying much of anything right now. I should be making space for black voices and their truths. But silence is also not an option—too often white Americans have stayed silent and, therefore, safe. A safety that blacks in our country have simply never had.

Talk about privilege.

So, rather than go on, what I am going to do is share two posts.

The first is a WBEZ article by Aaron Allen: “How The Green Line, A Pink House And 12 Cents Changed How I See My City”

He’s put together a really extraordinary piece examining the truth that standard bank lending practices:

1. HUGELY favor white Chicago neighborhoods; and

2. Make it almost impossible for the Black and Hispanic neighborhoods of Chicago to grow and prosper.

You will enjoy the gorgeous storytelling, even if the content makes you angry (and it should).

The second is a piece just published by Willow Research (where I work, full disclosure): “Racial Inequality in America: A Look at the Numbers”

I’m offering it to you, because it lays out—in stark detail—data that irrefutably shows just how differently Blacks and whites are treated in our country and, further, provides survey data on the deep disparities in how Blacks and whites view racial inequities.

Having that quantitative data all in one place is…it hurts.

It hurts, because it’s True, but it is far from Beautiful.

As we go through this crisis, I wish you clarity and Truth.

I wish you moments of stunning Beauty, even in the midst of such profound pain and righteous anger.

I wish you safety, and sanity, and justice.

And most of all, for ALL of us to do whatever we can, whatever is necessary to make sure that black lives matter in the United States.

Let’s Start with Beauty

This week, I experienced a stunningly Beautiful moment.

I was driving through the Indiana countryside after three months of barely leaving my apartment in Chicago. My two cats were in carriers in the backseat, having mostly slept for the past two hours. It had been flat Interstate for ages, but now we were rolling through fields, some with tiny shoots coming up in tight rows, some bare and scraggly with the bones of last year’s corn.

Suddenly to my left was a field covered in the brightest yellow flowers I’d ever seen. Yellow after yellow, bordered with spikey green grass and soft ground cover. And it’s May, so this green is deep, but still young and vibrant. And the sky was as blue as it gets, with a few fluffy pure-white clouds, some of them pregnant with a band of dark gray that might later become rain over other fields to the east.

All of the colors were sharp and bright and perfect.

This was Yellow. There could be no yellow more Yellow than those flowers.

The blue, the green, the white, the gray, they all seemed to be the purest possible form of each color. The essence of them, somehow. If colors had souls.

*             *             *

When I ask people about Beauty, they often describe a nature experience, usually with a bit of rapture and awe in their voices.

We’ve only lived in cities and towns for the blink of an eye. Humanity was born out of nature, and the deepest parts of us still remember it, not as a place we visit, but as the very heart of ourselves.

This moment, driving through the fields of central Indiana, I wanted to stop and take a picture. To try to capture a small part of the Beauty I had stumbled across, so I could show it to you, and maybe you could experience a fraction of it for yourselves. I actually saw another car stopped at the cross street, the driver standing up out of the car window, angling his phone for the perfect shot. You don’t see that so often on SR26.

I didn’t stop. Because this moment was not just Beautiful, it was also True. And the truth was that my tuxedo cat Fern had just gotten loudly carsick all over herself thirty seconds before the field of butterweed flowers, and I was only 15 minutes from home. She needed help, so I rolled on.

This part of the moment is True, not because of the fact of her barfing, but because it was a moment of great joy, with just a tiny drop of sorrow in it. And THAT is both Beautiful and True for me. Joy with a tiny drop of sorrow. Or the opposite, moments of grief that also contain seeds of bright joy.

If you’re old enough, you might remember the climax of Steel Magnolias. If you haven’t seen it, watch it. If you have, you probably already know where I’m going. The cemetery scene. M’lynn, overcome with grief and rage. Ousier’s offer. A sudden burst of rioutous laughter that cuts through the despair and reminds M’lynn and the other women and all of us that friendship is still real and that there is some good, even in in the depths of horrible pain.

Those moments are Beautiful and True for me.

So, having my breath taken away unexpectedly by a field I’d driving past hundreds of times, coupled with the urgency of a slightly ill cat—that moment, both realities together, was Beautiful and True.

The things that are Beautiful or True—or both—don’t always have to be big. They usually aren’t. They’re often everyday and simple.

If we allow ourselves the possibility that they exist, we start to see them more and more.

The people I know who are living the richest lives, who seem most content, keep themselves open to simple moments of beauty and truth. These people are busy and focused and ambitious, many of them, but they also keep an antenna up for these moments, and give themselves permission to pause and experience.

How are your antennae?

Are they up and sensitive, ready to point you toward the sublime?

Or have they atrophied a little?

If they have, here is my challenge for you over the next week. Allow yourself to witness something Beautiful. Just one thing.

I can’t tell you what it will be, because it 1) could be nearly anything, and 2) it will be different for everyone. What is Beautiful to me won’t necessarily be Beautiful to you, and vice versa.

Here’s what I can tell you.

It may catch you totally by surprise. Just giving yourself permission to witness it may be enough.

But if you find yourself nearing the end of the week and you’re frustrated because nothing Beautiful has jumped out and grabbed you by the heart, there’s also this Truth.

Sometimes ordinary things, if we give them a little attention, if we let ourselves experience them in detail…sometimes ordinary things become beautiful when we stop taking them for granted or assuming they’re worthless.

4 a.m. birdsong.

A faded blanket.

Your partner’s toothbrush next to yours.

A drop of bright mustard spilled on a dark wood floor.

A piece of music you’ve never heard in quite that way.

If Beauty doesn’t snag us, we can still draw it to ourselves, if we’re quiet and patient and open.

So.

One thing, over the course of a whole week.

You won’t regret it.

(And here’s a picture of Fern, just because she’s cute.)

An Unexpected Journey

The moments that change a life seem to strike us when we’re paying attention to something else.

The path to Beautiful & True started with a telenovela.

Well, not exactly. I’ve been asking questions about joy, contentment, meaning, and purpose for…well, forever. Questing is part of my DNA, I think.

But solid answers to those questions were in short supply. Until…

For this to make sense, I have to take you back a couple of years. Over Thanksgiving in 2018, somewhat out of the blue, I decided that I wanted to live in Spain someday, which meant I should start re-learning Spanish. I immediately hopped on Duolingo to brush up on what I had learned in high school. And it was great, but slow, and I was impatient.

So, I started watching Spanish telenovelas, to try to speed things up, and because they’re so much fun. The plots are over-the-top. Someone is always getting murdered or put in jail. There are nuns with sinister agendas. It was perfect. And if I was learning too many words relating to being in love or getting revenge, so what?

In one of them, Acacias 38, there was a storyline about a young woman in 1913 Madrid with a troubled past (of course), who meets an older artist just arrived from Paris to settle some kind of inheritance (also, of course). Maite, the artist, discovers Camino has a talent for drawing, and—having nothing better to do—offers to give her painting lessons.

Suddenly, in the middle of this WWI-era soap opera, two women were having lengthy discussions on art and the nature of inspiration.

I’m going to paraphrase a bit, but one conversation went basically like this:

Camino: What inspires you to paint?

Maite: You’re the student, you tell me. What inspires you?

Camino: I’m not sure, yet.

Maite: All right, I’ll tell you what inspires me. Beauty and truth.

Camino: Yes! Me too!

Maite (laughing): Yes, of course. Everyone is inspired by beauty and truth. But what is beautiful and true for one person is not the same for someone else. When you know what is both beautiful and true for yourself, you’ll be able to put the rules to the side and paint however you want, love however you want, live however you want. You will have achieved the ultimate goal: libertad.

Liberation.

It sounds better in Spanish, but oof…that’s a big word.

That scene stuck with me. I found myself watching it over and over on YouTube. I would think about it all day. I couldn’t stop talking about it. Normally, that kind of obsession would have been obnoxious, but it ended up sparking amazing, powerful conversations.

That’s when I knew that I was on to something. I asked myself:

“Do I know what is Beautiful and True for my own life?”

No, not really. I could feel something nebulous and eager somewhere in the depths, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was.

“Can I look at the people I know and see what is Beautiful and True for them?”

Yes!

For a handful of people, it was so clear, shining like a halo around their lives. And inevitably, these were all people who seemed…content. Not always happy, not always getting what they wanted, but somehow they were facing life with heads held high and hearts open, with fierce joy and integrity.

It was gorgeous.

I wanted that kind of clarity and purpose and equilibrium for ME.

I have studied scriptures. I have read Zen masters. I have spent wonderful hours with witches and shamans and energy healers.

But I always felt like the life I wanted was somehow behind a glass door. I could see it, I could even smell it, but I couldn’t find my way into the room and the door was always locked.

So, when the key was dropped in my lap by a soap opera of all things…

There are tales of Buddhist masters who watch and wait for their students to be ready to move to the next level of training. When the moment is near, the student seems to get stuck in their practice. No growth, no forward motion. Just frustration and restlessness. And at the exact perfect moment, when the student is open but not expecting it, the Master sneaks up and smacks them hard on the forehead, and enlightenment rushes in.

“I wasn’t looking for an enlightenment experience when I got smacked. I was busy studying Spanish.”

There are all kinds of ways to get past your own glass door. But I am convinced that they all start with recognizing what is Beautiful & True for you.

Not for your parents. Not for your friends. Not for your work colleagues. Not for the other moms at the daycare. Not for your pastors, not for your presidents.

What is Beautiful & True for YOU.

I’ve been behind the glass door for six months now, and here is what I can tell you. It’s not always easy. I’m not always happy. There have been moments that have downright sucked. I mean, we’re in the middle of a global pandemic, and everything seems upended.

But since I began looking very deliberately for the Beautiful & True, I have been basically content. My spirit has been calmer. My mental state stronger. It’s harder to throw me off balance, and easier for me to right myself when it happens. I feel less…afraid.

I feel free.

Liberated.

So, that’s what this podcast and blog are all about. An exploration of the Beautiful & True in our lives and in our world. It won’t always be easy. It won’t always be happy.

But if we can unlock that glass door for ourselves, we achieve the ultimate end.

Libertad.