I was walking through Central Park the other day, on my way to the public restrooms near the Delacort Theatre. An older, well dressed lady stopped me to politely ask if I knew where the Great Lawn was. I am familiar with the location of the Great Lawn inside the Park, but as I explained to her, I am not sure exactly how to "get there from here," so to speak. I basically advised walk East and South a little ways. She was concerned about the curving trails and winding pathways inside the Park, fearing she might get lost if she merely ambles East and South.
"Well," I quipped, "at least you'll be surrounded by beauty as you wander along."
"Oh," she sighs with a dismissive gesture of her pale hand. "I am not interested in beauty."
And just like that, I was rendered speechless. Simply smiled, shrugged my shoulders and made my way on up the hill towards my destination.
But ever since ... I have been thinking - how could anyone NOT be interested in Beauty? ???????????????????????
Isn't there something inherent in human nature that is interested in Beauty? Isn't that why it often stops us in our tracks? Isn't that where inspiration dwells and where great art comes from?
Is it even remotely possible to NOT be interested in Beauty?
Perhaps this lady had seen enough beauty (with a small b) in her day and her quota was full? Or perhaps she had no capacity to take in any more? Is this what we all have to look forward to in the twilight of our life? Being too busy or too lost or too distracted to be interested in Beauty?? I am personally planning to travel the globe in search of Beauty before my days in the sun are through.
I got to thinking about the little things. All the little bits and dabs of Beauty here and there. How they sneak up on us and demand our attention. The curve of a laughter-filled face. The first little blossom in the window box after a long rough winter. The particular shade of blue in a clear summer sky at dusk. The possibilities are endless. If we are not interested in Beauty, how much of our experience do we reject? Or hide from? Or repress?
Sometimes the little things strike me, stick to me like glue. Until words eventually come tumbling out to explain. Join me as I indulge a secret Beauty that found my fingers one fine day. That little curve beneath the pelvic bone, so large and tender and fragile. One day I found it mesmerizing. Sacred.
She Sleeps
She sleeps
in fetal pose.
I trace the curve
of her hip with my finger,
that pocket of Divinity
where complete surrender
resides.
I could take her hip bone with me as I go.
There is no need.
For I know
that she would give it me
if asked.
Duvall O'Steen
© 2014 Duvall O'Steen LLC
