You know, the field trip where every girl learned how to match clothes, apply blush and flirt for drinks.
I was ripping the lace off my socks at 4.
I am not good at being a girl.
And, so often, I feel like less of a girl for it.
That’s for the girls who get asked out on lots of dates.
It’s for Belle. And all the other Disney princesses.
It’s not for Ashley.
And, so, for the longest time, I hated anything beautiful.
Because, I believed, I was the furthest thing from it.
Here’s the trouble.
Lately, I’ve started to fall in love with beauty.
The way the sun dances on my sheets.
It’s like my soul slides into rhythm when I see something beautiful.
And my heart catches like sails on a sailboat on a windy day.
And, then I tear up—all because I have encountered beauty.
Moments after such occurrences, I usually scoff at my own wanderings.
WHY WOULD I EVER CRY AT BEAUTY?
Who am I?
The trouble I’m finding, as I map out beauty, is it’s often most poignant when it plays to its natural character.
An apple, as it falls off a tree, is small and precious.
The mountains are rough and cascading.
The green of spring is pushy and young.
It’s like the things in nature know all they have is who they are.
They can’t be bigger or smaller if they wished.
They can’t be less terrifying or more palatable.
They simply are.
And, for it, I’m overcome.
That’s the trouble with beauty.
It exists in its own form.
Not dolled up.
It simply is.
This is my intersection.
To grasp beauty as I find it in myself.
You know, I’ve always loved wearing my hat backwards.
I’ve loved dancing and painting because it makes my soul swim fast.
And, I’ve loved mountains because they’re strong.
So, I’m going to keep wearing my backward baseball caps.
I’ll dance and paint and find mountains to melt over.
For beauty is.
And, so must I be.