Beauty makes me cry.

It didn’t use to, not ever, but now it does.

I like it.

It’s a special vulnerability, a cherished little gift.

And there’s a lot to cry about.

Panoramic scenes of nature.

Windswept lakes in ancient forests.

Valleys of green, and wildflower tapestries.

Endless high trees and the reverberation of a woodpecker.

The English countryside.

Vineyards and orchards and golden cornfields and gurgling streams.

The ocean.

A quaint French village square.

Abstract art.

Design in general.

And homes, beautiful homes.

Aaaah, yes.

That’s a new one.

So much appreciation.

So many amazing places.

An elevated rectangular house made of timber and glass in the woods.

The vast open-plan apartment on top of a high building.

A restored farmhouse in Tuscany, a minimalist Japanese abode in the mountains, or a New Zealand hide-away.

Lots of white inside, and natural colors.

An ever-changing display of sunlight, soft rays in low angles, subtle diffusion, welcoming shade.

A peaceful wooden deck with a single chair.

Elegance, simplicity, well-placed artifacts.

Colorful lives, thoughtfully displayed.

Locations of love and respect and tranquility.

They can make me feel devastatingly sad and deeply longing.

All of that is so unlike my past, so opposite.

It’s like every amazing place I see reminds me of a life I forgot to live.

Beauty wasn’t for me.

Everything used to be dark and ugly and not to be enjoyed, like I constantly deserved bleak punishment.

But not anymore.

Now I dare to greedily drink in what is esthetically pleasing, what is elegant and crisp and vibrant and alluring.

Life is beautiful.

 

I finally notice.