I know that it has been said many times before, in every possible way. I know that every word ever used upon the Earth to speak of beauty has been used, and used again. But I must say it again. The Earth, the King’s stolen masterpiece, is beautiful.
The intricacy astonishes me. No place is the same—even time differs across the face of the Earth. In one place, children run barefooted, filling the air with their laughter and tasting the nectar of honeysuckles. In another, a springtime sun rises slowly over a quiet mountain valley, with bare tree branches—some just beginning to bloom—stretching toward the sky. In a third, in the same instant, a family goes shooting down a snowy slope, crashing into snowdrifts in a violence of joy and scurrying back up the hill to do it again. The seasons cradle the Earth, slowly shifting their grip from one place to another, spinning it through the years.
The colors, too—there are infinite greens. If any of you Cultivates have tried to count them, I imagine you are counting still. The roiling of the lights in the northern night sky, and the shifting colors of the ocean, embodying ephemeral grace and shifting permanence all at once. Sunsets and sunrises, which make me think that our Father-King is Himself painting the sky at the moment I have the privilege to watch.
And life—sparrows building nests in the trees. The way a flower’s leaf bounces after a bee has taken flight from it. The soft gills on the underside of a mushroom. Dew pearling on a spider’s web. The flutter of seaweed in a current, and bright red moss at the bottom of a rushing stream. The noble curve of a stag’s antlers, a crown unmatched by gold or gems. I have spent hours finding these things and so many more, more than I could ever name.
I have followed the wind where it went, watching it ripple through tall grass, turning it into a sparkling sea. I have seen it set daffodils to dancing, their sunny faces smiling. I have stood among a rain of dogwood blossoms. It makes art the way it draws the flower petals across the ground like a carpet.
Carpet is beautiful, too—the way it softens the floors beneath bare toes. The smoothness of perfect pancakes lifted to a plate, and the way butter melts over them. Spoons, shiny and perfectly fitted together in a drawer—and also round spoonfuls of peanut butter, or slow drips of chocolate sauce. The aisles of supermarkets, filled with color and words and abundance. Butterfly junctions between busy roads, the cars whirling in a brief dance before going on their way. The way cats curl up on the pillow of the human they love.
Animals and humans in relationship is something that I have never appreciated before. I came across a family whose dog was soon to have puppies, and the curl of the tiny bodies within the womb smote me with their loveliness, their potential. More wonderful was that the humans could see it and felt the same. Nearby was another family who had just gotten a young puppy, and the way the children and the small dog played together, the way they laughed as it lavished kisses and warm breath over their faces, that absolute and unreserved love from both creatures—I wept for the wonder of it.
Most beautiful are the humans themselves. Even lost, even damaged, even stolen, they are exquisite. You need only look at a sleeping baby to know that these are the last and best of the Father-King’s creation. You need only see that baby smile, or watch the mother cradle the child in her matchless love, to know that they are still in their natures very, very good.
In a place where the air still bit with cold, I followed a group of friends as they drove away from the city’s lights and built a vast fire, the orange light changing their faces. Even in the deepened, flickering shadows, they laughed and rested in the pure trust of their understanding of one another. They wrapped themselves in blankets and lay head to feet, wearing gloves and hats, and watched the stars come out in the velvet sky.
My favorite sight, however, was an old man and an old woman leaving their home in the evening of a summer day. He wore his flat cap and carried a cane, while she had on her shawl and walking shoes. They twined hands, roughened fingers fitting together with the ease of long practice, and they went walking down the street, nodding to smiling neighbors and bickering amiably. The love between them, solid and true and pure, was nearly a living thing, rippling out from them and warming all it touched.
That is why I do what I do. That is why, however wonderful this sabbath has been, I am glad to be returning to my work. If I am ever fortunate enough to be even partly responsible for a love half so strong, I will have reason for pride.