“It is a great pleasure to break off a long beautifully flowering branch from a cherry tree and to arrange it in a large vase. What a delightful task to perform when a visitor is seated nearby conversing! The visitor will wear a cherry colored Court cloak, from the bottom of which his underobe emerges. I am even happier if a butterfly or small bird flutter prettily near the flowers and I can see its face.”
(Sei Shonagan, Pillow Book)
I was reading a passage from Sei Shonagan’s Pillow Book the other weekend, and began to cry. It was like I was reading something that I’d written long ago and that there was grief in the loss of it. Something to do with beauty being valued as much as wealth or power or knowledge. Not beauty as a marketable product in the way it is today, but beauty as something that elevates the heart and soul.
“Floating lotus leaves are very pretty when they are spread out, large and small, drifting along the calm, limpid water of a pond! If one picks up a leaf and presses it against some object it is the most delightful thing in the world.”
I had a dream that embodied my sadness. I look out my windows and see that the big rhododendron bushes are bending to the ground, seemingly blown by a strong wind. But someone comes to tell me that they have been cut down. I rush out horrified and furious. Standing across the street in the door of her house is a frizzy haired bleached blonde redneck of a woman with a chainsaw. She cut the bushes down because they were in her way. I howl in rage at her but she doesn’t care a bit. I walk away in grief so deep I can barely move. “They are gone forever”, I think to myself. These beautiful ancient old trees, that flower in spring and are home for the songbirds—just like that, gone. They are gone, the………and I know it is a word other than rhododendron I want. I say “the mountain laurels are gone.”
“Elegant things:
A white coat worn over a violet waistcoat
Shaved ice mixed with liana syrup and put in a new silver bowl.
Wistaria blossoms. Plum blossoms covered with snow.
A pretty child eating strawberries.”
I feel like I came into this world loving beauty in this way. (I can even remember writing Haiku poetry in 2nd grade.) I can be in the middle of a project or a bad mood, and suddenly notice the red berries glowing on the dogwood tree, 
or the way the dried leaves have artfully arranged themselves on smooth stone—and be captivated, transported to another world where all is as it should be. 
I was talking about this with a friend and wondering, if this is something I know so well, then what would be my lesson in this life? Meaning that I think we come into this world having some things down pretty well—we know them intimately and thoroughly. Beauty is like that for me. So what would be the cutting edge for me? And it occurred to me that maybe I could learn to see beauty in everything, not just those things where it is easy to do so. It is like breathing for me to notice nature’s beauty every single day—I have no problem stopping and smelling the roses. But what if I could see beauty in the hearts of people that infuriate me, in the ugly parts of myself? What if I became open to seeing beauty as much as I can wherever I look, where it takes effort and patience and willingness? The thought was overwhelming. The way that could change my life if I could practice it with awareness, with commitment.
I’m not sure that you just set out to do something like this—it can turn into a mission then, or some form of control. But to keep it as a possibility feels good. I started somewhere that felt easier to me than people—nature again. But rather than the luscious red berries on the dogwood, I looked at the dried up leaves that have fallen this year before turning their usual brilliant array. Many of them have an odd mold on them and are full of darkened holes. But one looked like a moth somehow,
.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~And one had the palette of a New Mexican cliffside 
~~~~~~~~~~~
one volcanic ash and fire.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It feels like a beginning.