tmbt: say when
Sometimes beauty is hard to find. I look around and know that there are beautiful things around me, know that the sun through the skylights is really magical, that the way the sunflowers are leaning out of that old ceramic pitcher from my mom is precious, that the warm buzz of traffic outside my building is comforting, and all these and more are beautiful. But am I experiencing the beauty? No, not really. Can I see it with the eye inside that knows the beauty of all of life and therefor is moved to tears when it escalates to such heights as the perfectly-made bed, the keen sparkle in the eye of what can only be a lover, or the sweet equipoise of clear glass vessels stacked in a window? Almost.
For four days I have been nearly immobilized with pain – physical, unrelenting, overtly structural pain. I can barely sit and laying flat is no picnic either, but is the lesser of the evil positions. I think about beauty in pain and am hard-pressed to find it. Intellectually, I know that there is beauty to be found. I know it. Of course there is. Perhaps it is the beauty of forced slowly. Maybe the beauty of leaning on others. Could be the beauty of time alone with my mind. These are good ideas, but not my experience. The eye is clouded. It is clouded with worry for the future, “What if this lasts much longer?”, with remorse for the past, “What if I hadn’t pushed so hard in physical therapy AND ridden my bike to work so much?”, and a near-inability to be in the present, “It just hurts too much to be here right now.” I think that really is key, that beauty can really only be truly found in the present. An inability to be here certainly renders my beauty-finder weak at best.
I started this blog so that I could offer a little extra light to the world in my small way, and so that I would be pushed into turning my heart towards the magic of the everyday and the mind, the beauty of it all. Yesterday, I didn’t even try. No entry. No light. Just a haze of painkillers and sorrow. Today, I’ve found a little courage to move and look, to be here, to say “when” is enough of hiding. I’d certainly like to say “when” to the pain, but that seems to be beyond my control. And so the only thing I can say “when” to is my own revulsion, my own worry-warting, my own lack of presence. Saying “when” is the most beautiful thing I have today, in whatever small amounts I can muster.