Beauty's Proof

My daughter Madeleine is curled up at bedtime, reading a book about Greek mythology for children. She is not so usually inclined, so I ignore the clock and listen instead to the rain falling lightly on the patio, on the thick green leaves, on our rooftop. The night is still, all except for the tap, tap of raindrops and the occasional car whizzing down our street, hoping for a shortcut somewhere fast.

Madeleine is already seven, but still she knows the kinds of things children her age soon forget – that truth comes in the form of stories, that beauty is best found in buttercups and that running through the backyards barefoot makes for the best adventures yet. We do not live in the country, but it hardly matters. Every tree, no matter how small or ornamental, must be climbed. Every lonely caterpillar must be made a king of his own castle of leaves. Every day I become the family high priest offering gifts of forget-me-nots on the altar of the sill above the kitchen sink. We place each treasure in perfect quiet, aware, as we should be, that every living thing is beautiful and holy. Indeed.

Now, thirty years after my own late nights falling asleep in books after bedtime, I am convinced that the buttercups in dishes all around are an essential part of learning how to hear Spirit’s call. And I don’t mean for seven year olds, though they certainly are included. Beauty—whether it comes to us in the form of caterpillar castles or the little hands that prepare them—teaches us what is wholesome, what is simple, what is right. In her company, we feel again the pangs of longing; we recognize how essential it is that we find some way everyday to bring peace and hope to our world. With that vision of fierce goodness as our guide, our unique experience of Beauty helps us know which direction to go.

For too long, I have been fearful of this delight that Beauty brings, believing it to be some strange misfire of my mind, not data to be taken seriously. I have been afraid to trust and honor my body, and consequently all the ways sight, sound, smell and touch teach me my path in the world. Unaware of my doubts, I have pulled at the tiny thread that knits body and soul together making me one whole and living person. As if in a maze without earth below or sky above, how easily I have disregarded all Beauty’s proof that indeed God has gone wild with love for the world!

What can save us, I wonder, from this disease of fear that holds us captive, divorced from the sensation of bare feet in dirt, of hands under running water, of the face upturned to the sun? How can we experience call from inside our skin? From the hallowed ground of our own bodies?

I have no clear answers, but could it begin for me in my own backyard, gathering my own collection of buds for the windowsill altar? Seeing those buttercups painted in a golden hue, I feel the power of Beauty’s call. In their humble presence, I remember again how quickly childhood fades. These flowers invite me into a sanctuary where little children lead me along the way. By some miracle of the moment, I understand who I am meant to be. I am the High Priestess of the Buttercup, and I take my vows of fidelity and patience with all seriousness. If my heart flies away to other things before the right time, so does this sacred space made holy by young hands and little feet. My children need my presence; better yet, I need them to fulfill my calling for this chapter of my days.

My dear girl is drifting off now, dreaming no doubt of nymphs and centaurs and Aphrodite. Her chin has a yellow glow from the dusting of too many buttercups. How much longer I wonder, will she hear the call of beauty beckoning her to be barefoot and free, hanging from trees? Will she hold on to the wisdom of her body, roaming wild in fields, or will she, like too many other girls – including me – surrender her senses for the stately logic of her head alone? So far, she is safe with Hera and the companionship of caterpillars. May Beauty save us both, calling us to remember what is holy and good, “announcing [our] place again and again,” as the poet Mary Oliver says, “in the family of things.”