Yesterday I picked a daisy and was wildly pleased about it. The daisy was beautiful. Its petals were uneven and misshapen but it was perfect in its imperfection. You know I actually teared up at the reminder of our perfectness, and wholeness just the way we are.
I love picking flowers: They’re one of nature’s simplest and most profound sources of beauty with purpose. To perpetuate life.
I’ve always been fascinated by beauty: In nature, in people, in art, food, everything. A lot of folks file aesthetic beauty under frivolous, along with happiness, fun, singing, and dancing. I label that file power.
When there’s truth and substance behind it, happiness is joy; fun celebrating; singing worship; dancing praise. Sho nuff.
Beauty acts as the great bridge builder, opening hearts, eyes, ears, arms to truths folks didn’t realize they were ready to embrace.
How many sunsets have brought tears to someone’s eyes, and how many sunrises hope?
How many flowers have been plucked and scattered by thoughtful hands, propagating species?
How many men and women have changed the course of history because their handsomeness won them the right audience?
Now, that flower got me teared up because I saw how quickly one might dismiss it for the misshapen, odd-length petals. My expectation was for beauty and my heart was tuned to the depth channel: That’s what I got.
The first danger in misunderstanding beauty is in undervaluing its power.
The second danger is in overvaluing beauty itself.
How many lies have been received because their delivery was so intoxicating?
How many messages have been missed because the messenger was repellant?
How many hands have gone empty grasping at the shadow of imagined perfection?
How much pain has been caused by the sparkling distraction of a jeweled hilt from the double-edged sword?
Beauty is a brilliant wonder we should take seriously, but keep second to a mind searching constantly for truth.