Beauty In The Skies

I’ve always enjoyed flying, in a sense. As a dual British-American citizen, I love the fact that I can get on a plane in one country and within less than a day be standing on the ground of another country. And despite the frustrations of security, and the endless waiting, and being squeezed into a seat between strangers that (despite the cheerful predictions of friends) do not lend themselves to sleep – it still amazes me that I can go such a distance in such a short period of time, relatively speaking.

One of the things I love about flying that far above the earth is the sudden surprise views that appear – I’ve settled in, started reading or watching a film, maybe adjusted my ipod to listen to music, and then I glance out the window and there is a vista that appeared out of the clouds. I’ve seen majestic sunsets and glorious sunrises, clear views of the land below – I remember an incredible view of the Grand Canyon once that impressed me almost as much as seeing it ‘live and in person’.

Today it was a combination of clouds that made me feel I was looking at a different world. That’s one of the aspects of airline travel that you get nowhere else on earth – the feeling that you have transcended one world and have been given access for a moment to another. A science-fiction feeling, almost: it could be anywhere, and nowhere, and somewhere all in one. Pale gauzy clouds drifting lazily above…a thick stream of cloud just above what appears to be a horizon…mountainous clouds that could be land, or sea, or cloud…and a flowing sea of cloud that looks like waves, rolling and tumbling and yet making no sound at all. And a glimmer of light shining in from the side, as though to light up this eerie world from a source I knew not.

It was an unearthly beauty, and I drank it in. It disappeared so quickly – clouds rolled in and we flew on and soon there was nothing of general interest at all, and I went back to my book or my music or whatever had captured me before. But I won’t forget this beauty of the heavens – because for me it’s a reminder that there is another world, high above this one that we live and move and work and walk on. There is a heaven that can’t be imagined, and sometimes we get a little glimpse of it.  "It has always seemed to me, ever since early childhood, that, amid all the commonplaces of life, I was very near to a kingdom of ideal beauty. Between it and me hung only a thin veil. I could never draw it quite aside, but sometimes a wind fluttered it and I caught a glimpse of the enchanting realm beyond -- only a glimpse -- but those glimpses have always made life worth while."  (L.M. Montgomery, Alpine Path)  Flying is one of those privileges we have that reminds us that we are actually quite small and insignificant, and our little world that we think so much of is quite insignificant, also, when compared with all the other worlds we’ve forgotten about – and the greatest new world that we will one day be catapulted (or drawn slowly) into. It’s hard to believe, when I’m tired or sick or weary or weighed down with cares, that this world is so short and will one day disappear – and it will all be the new world, the impossible-to-believe world, the new heavens and new earth for those who have seen beyond this one. Because if this life is the best you can imagine, there’s not much waiting for you. But if this world pales in comparison to the possibilities, what beauty will one day be seen!

Beauty of Bailey's

A few weeks ago I stumbled across the Bailey's Facebook page, on which they were offering free samples of their new 'biscotti' flavour. I'm a big Bailey's fan, so I ordered mine and then promptly forgot all about it.  Recently my little sample arrived in the post, and it made for a beautiful morning - and a beautiful blog post!

It came with a little postcard  saying "With love from Italy".  I loved the picture, and just sat staring at it for a few minutes...one of the places I've always wanted to go is the Amalfi Coast in Italy, and this reminded me of it.

Blue skies, warm sunshine, turquoise waters, ancient crumbly buildings, green grass, and everything covered over with a sort of amber haze, like the entire country is steeped in romance and history and sepia-coloured photographs, even today.  I haven't been to Amalfi, but I've been to Rome, and it's one of my most favourite cities in the whole world.  The richness, the 'flavour' of the whole city just capture your heart and your senses all at once.  The colours of the Bailey's bottle and the drink itself just goes so well with it all - a creamy, vanilla-brown, smooth and thick and sweet. 

Bailey's is an amazing drink because it's so versatile. You can have it on its own (poured over ice in a pretty crystal glass); added to coffee (I don't usually like anything in my coffee, but Bailey's makes everything beautiful); poured into cheesecake or another kind of dessert - even chocolate chip cookie dough! Try it!  I went with the simple beauty of just pouring it out - and I've made my one little tiny sample bottle last for a week or more that way.

I'm realising, again - still? - that beauty truly is everywhere.  You can find beauty in a sample that arrives at your door - a small bottle - a warm drink - a photograph - anything.  It hides in secret places sometimes, and others it's right before your eyes, you just need to look.  If you would see beauty all around you, you must...

Stop.  Stop what you're doing and even what you're thinking. If necessary, physically stop and just stand there for a moment.

Set Aside. Now put down (physically or mentally) everything you're carrying around. If your hands are full, put things on a counter or desk. If your head is full, tell yourself you will set all that down and you will pick it up later. (It will come back, never fear.)  We don't want to set down because we fear we will forget something hugely important - but if your mind is at rest you will remember more, not less.

Focus.  On the beauty, on the world around you for the beauty in it.  It may be a person (your small daughter dancing, your sister trying on a dress; an object (a flower, a bee, a bowl of strawberries); a place (a beach, rock formations, a creek).  Whatever it is, now that you've stopped and set aside, turn all your mental energy to this beauty before you. And...

Investigate. Go deeper. Often the greatest beauty is in the detail. Flower petals. Stitching on a dress. Your daughter's tiara, or brown eyes, or the colour of her hair.  Pebbles sparkling on the beach. This is what children do - they go deeper. And they call us to beauty. "Look! Look!"

Stop and look today.

The Beauty of London

I love London. I always have, since the first time I visited it, tired and footsore and riding around on the top of a double-decker red bus even though it was cold and grey and windy and raining hard. I love the magic and mystery of it, the old-world beauty, the coming-to-life of Dickens and his ilk, the glamour and sophistication meeting the poor and downtrodden, the museums, the Tube, and the people – oh, the people! Frothing about in a mass of humanity such as is rarely ever seen. Brushing past each other with blank stares, slipping into and out of the stream of people with hardly a touch. Cycles, taxis, buses, and walkers. Men in dark suits with comfortable white trainers; women in fur coats; homeless men in rags; small children with balloons; tired mothers pushing prams; posh mothers having left their children behind; important-sounding businessmen talking, it seems, to nobody at all, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing. The way people walk directly under Big Ben or Westminster, or through St James Park, without even seeing it. The constant movement, lights, motion, sound, beauty.

There are particular beauties I see often in London – but I love that I always see new ones. This time it was an immense and sparkling array of gemstones in the Victoria & Albert Museum; the huge Christmas tree standing at Covent Garden, and the matching baubles hanging from the ceilings inside; the shadowy image of Sherlock Holmes at the Baker Street Tube stop; the incredible intricacy of autumn leaves frozen into the South Kensington ice rink; and the ever-changing beauty of the Harrods window displays. I stopped to stare at each one – it’s as good as shopping to walk around the entire Harrods store, and to me is a thank you to the artists who spent hours and days and perhaps even weeks preparing each display. The sheer extravagance and sparkle and expensive-ness and creativity compacted into one display was enough for me to stop and stare; and there is an entire city block of these to enjoy.

It seems, then, that the beauty I love in London is its marrying of consistency and variety. Like the seasons, which every year are the same, and yet every year just a little bit different, London as a city is also reassuringly the same, and yet with new glories to discover around every corner. I love going to the same shops, or to the Camden Town markets, with joyful expectation of a particular place that is there every time, and yet getting surprised by something new I’d passed several times and never before seen. Or looking out on the Thames to see it look as I’ve never seen it before.

Or people-watching on the Tube and being never-endingly fascinated by the variety, the faces, the hair, the shoes, the things they are carrying. Quite calmly, a man with a large potted plant pushes his way onto the Tube. Or a woman with a massive bouquet of flowers; a small child with two stuffed animals; a student reading a book and not even looking up as he navigates the doors. Sometimes I choose just one thing – like shoes – to look at on my journey. Tall brown boots; black patent leather shoes; sandals; fur-lined parka boots; little white ballet shoes; comfortable trainers; pointy alligator shoes; impossibly high heels, in varying colours; little kitten heels; and a plethora of others that go by in rapid succession, standing and sitting and shifting and stepping and sliding and every other kind of movement you can imagine. I also like trying to guess the face that goes with the shoes – and I’m very often surprised by the results. The patent-leather black shoes belong to a student, or the impossibly high heels to an older woman. Once again, London has been consistent, and surprised me at the same time.

Ancient Beauty: The Lewis Chessmen

Today I got to see the set of ivory chessmen that were found on the shores of Uig, Isle of Lewis, over 900 years ago.

I had visited Lewis last summer and spent a week traveling around, taking photos, and generally being amazed by the light and space and quiet.  When I got to Uig, there was a huge wooden chess piece standing on the side of the little road that led to the beach, and a notice explaining that this was a large replica made based on the little ivory chessmen that had been found there in 1831.

Apparently these chessmen date back to the 12^th century, being Scandinavian in origin, and were found washed up on the beach by a local man. 

There was something about these little chess pieces that fascinated me.  Not only their incredible age, but the distance they had travelled.  Lewis is a remote, quiet, almost too-quiet place that is still fairly sparsely populated.  And on one of its beaches – far from Scandinavia! - is where these little carved figurines appeared, washing in with the tide, lying almost hidden under the sand for this man to find.  He obviously knew that these were no children’s playthings, for almost 200 years later I am standing in the National Museum of Scotland, looking at ten small chess pieces in fascination and wonder.

The detail is incredible.  You can still see the intricately carved lines, the eyes, every line of the little sword, the hats, the hair, the robes, the horses.  My friend Whitney and I stood for a good ten minutes discussing which one we thought was which – obviously that there was the rook, and this one the knight, and that one the bishop.  We debated for a while over which were the kings and which were the queens, and my favourite was a little man with his teeth bared over his sword.  I bought a replica in the gift shop as we went out – whenever a museum that good is free, I like to make my contribution via the (nevertheless overpriced) gift shop.  It eases my conscience and brings me a little joy too!  (Or someone else, if I’m actually buying a gift.) 

I know very little about chess (I’m not a strategic-game-player: the most I go for would be Risk because despite the strategy required, it still comes down to the roll of the dice), but the game is so beautiful that I will no doubt one day own a very classic and clever chess set.  The carefully designed characters, each one different from the other and yet following a similar pattern, standing like sentries on their designated squares, obedient to a particular route and rules, waiting patiently while their masters consider and ponder and plot their way through the game.

It’s much more than a game: it’s a military directive, an organised array, a battle that has all the time in the world.  I think it’s the pace of chess that I like – the pause for thought, the hand on the chin, the furrowed brow, the calculating wheels of the mind that are barely betrayed with a slight movement of the eyebrow, the eye, the head.  Then, swiftly, a decision is reached.  The hand goes out, the piece is chosen and shifted, in an instant the entire situation is new and different and (perhaps) surprising.  And after that there is silence again.  More consideration, more thought and planning and quietness, until the strike comes again.  And the pieces – those beautiful, carved, ivory pieces – sit in silence and patience with complete trust in their owner, moving in whatever direction he deems right.

It is, indeed, a beautiful game. 

Delicate Beauty

I went out this morning to find that there was a full, complete spider's web built onto the wing mirror of my car.  There is something so intricately beautiful about a spiderweb, especially first thing in the morning when every section is touched by a drop of dew, and the whole thing sparkles in the early morning sun.  It must have been the work of a night - it wasn't there last night when I drove the car in.  I stood for a moment entranced.  It completely covered my wing mirror, and being covered itself in dew or rain, it prohibited my view.  For the sake of the overnight worker, who had carried out this work with such skill, dedication, and beauty, I quailed at the thought of destroying it - but not being able to see what is behind me or to the right does not a safe car journey make, and away it must go.  I captured it, first, but of course my quick photo on the phone didn't in the least do it justice.  What incredible skill was here.  I have worked for days on projects that are far less beautiful - and this creature, one that had already moved on, had left me a gift of beauty that I had to remove.

I felt like I should apologise as I wiped it away.

Beauty In The City

Took the train into Glasgow tonight to meet some friends for dinner.  It was still light when I arrived at Queen Street Station, and I hurried along the streets thankful I had chosen to wear my big brown coat with the fur lining.  Autumn arrived this week and has begun warring with winter, both of them struggling with each other for the rights to the cold.  Autumn insists that it's his responsibility to usher in the crisp air and biting winds, and winter tells him to just give up the fight and let him come in with all the power of his arsenal.  I avoided them both with my furry coat, but I notice that I and my fellow city dwellers are beginning the winter hunch...both shoulders turned in a bit, head down, hands in pockets, feet moving quickly.

Not quickly enough though, as I noticed a man sitting against a wall with an old coffee cup in his hand, coat pulled tightly around him.  I still don't know yet what is the 'right' thing to do every time you see someone in this situation - especially when in the city, and you pass four or five in an hour.  None of them are ever in the same place twice, which makes it very difficult for any relationship building.  I used to wrestle with this in my mind every time, and avoid it entirely by simply walking on.  But a few years ago that got to me also.  If I'm really a believer in Jesus Christ, and trying to be more like Him, I know for a fact He wouldn't walk on.  Matter of fact, it's pretty clear from everything you can read about Jesus that He was homeless Himself.  No regular place to put His head, no kitchen, no family to take care of Him.  Matter of fact, they all showed up once when He was speaking to a crowd and demanded that He come home - not because they wanted to take care of Him, but because they thought He was quite literally out of his mind.  He went around proclaiming He was God, and they were going to save Him from Himself.  It didn't work, and Jesus went on with what He was determined to do, and here I am two thousand years later with hundreds of people that I don't know how to help who are constantly asking me for help.  I have finally decided on a personal philosophy, and it is just that - personal.  It's not what I think everybody should do, and certainly if it's what we all did it wouldn't be enough.  I think we all have to look deep inside and see who we are, what God has given us, and how we can help, even in the smallest way, these people who sit in doorways and against walls and in bus stations and hold out their hand for help.  Mine is to, if I can, buy them a cup of coffee (or some food), and find out their name.  It has never taken me more than five, or maybe ten minutes, out of my day.  Sometimes I stay and talk, other times I don't.  Sometimes I have appointments to keep and people relying on me, and I don't always take the time.  Sometimes I offer and they say no thanks.  But almost every time they are full of thanks, and I am glad that I met their eyes and did not look away.  Yes, I know all the arguments.  They're going to spend money on drink, or drugs, or whatever.  There are missions and hostels and homeless stations everywhere, and these guys are just professional moneymakers.  You need to really get alongside them and get to know them over a period of time.  It doesn't help to just speak to them the one time, especially if I don't even live in that city.  But if they are anything else in the world, they are a human being made in the image of God, and I cannot think it can be right to always pass by when it is so cold outside.  I wouldn't want to be sitting on a cold ground against a cold wall with religious people passing by on the other side all night long. All this flashed through my mind in a second, so fast I could hardly process it, and I promised myself I'd get him that coffee when I came by him on my way back.  If he was there.

We came out of the restaurant afterwards, and stood for a moment enjoying the sparkling beauty of a city at night.  I love going into a restaurant when it's still light out, and then coming out to fairy lights on the trees, a clock tower rising far above our heads against the blue-black sky, people moving more slowly now, not the crazy rush of employees but the comfortable walk of people who have been well fed.  We smiled at the city and it nodded back, pleased to be of service.  And then I remembered the man I had passed, and my inward promise.  I quailed a little, as you always do when there is something that makes you stand out from your friends, but I've ignored that feeling before to my detriment, and for the love of God, it's just a cup of coffee. So we rounded the corner and there he was, the same man, still collecting.  It was as though my feet stopped of their own accord, and I asked if I could get him something - some coffee, perhaps.  His eyes lit up and so did mine.  It was a very short section of my day.  A few minutes to find a coffee shop, a few more minutes to wait in the queue.  A minute or two for them to make it, a few minutes to walk back, and a minute to ask his name.

His name is John.  He is part of the beauty of the city, tonight.

Beauty in Jane

Tonight my friend and I had a Jane night - watching Jane Eyre as well as some Jane Austen. Sometimes I forget that Jane Eyre is not an Austen book, but a Bronte one...but watching the film I was reminded of the differences.  Bronte is darker, deeper even.  Austen wrote out of a desire to see all her characters get "after a little bit of trouble, everything their hearts desired".  She pleases us with beautiful women and handsome men, dances, kindnesses, prayers, familial love, and cups of tea.  Even the self centred men who do the heroines wrong sometimes have a little pang of heart.  But Bronte seems to enjoy scaring us a little with the truly evil side of people - Jane Eyre brings us harsh stepmothers, cruel taskmasters, talk of hellfire and a raging inferno taking over a castle, jealousy, anger, horror, insanity, and a truly great struggle between good and evil.  Two people make that struggle in their own hearts, choosing actions in their lives based on what they think is right and wrong.  One chooses to set aside that little niggling thought of conscience and do what the rest of the world would surely agree is right; and the other listens to it, flees in the midst of rain and storm, and wrestles with her own soul until right comes.

After watching Jane Eyre, we turned to Pride and Prejudice - almost for some relief.  We made dinner and were about to set it out at the table, when we decided that my very long dining room table would make an ideal opportunity for a Jane experience. We set the plates out, one at one end and one at the other, as though we were in one of those huge draughty dining rooms with candles and tapestries and servants.  We set candles all over the table, and used the long stemmed glasses for our sparkling wine.  And just as we sat down, we realised that we couldn't have this kind of dinner without dressing up, so we raced to my closet and picked out two beautiful dresses and some pearls, and sat down to eat our first course in style.  It was really lovely, "dressing for dinner".  How often do I make something quickly in the microwave, and eat it while working or reading or even standing at the breakfast bar.  And how rarely do I set aside three courses, with wine and candles, and time to talk, and the mobile phone somewhere else in the house where I can't hear it.  Because there's something not quite right about stepping back in time several hundred years, but trying to bring your existing century with you.  They don't fit.  You must have one or the other, and tonight we chose the other.


There's great beauty in both Janes.  Charlotte Bronte's Jane is plain, with great beauty within.  Jane Austen's women are beautiful inside and out, renowned for their beauty and chosen even when they are poor.  And there's something about the times gone by that makes us wish for it a little - the horses and carriages, four poster beds, family meals, dinners out, ruffled dresses, balls...so tonight we enjoyed it all, from the comfort of my twenty-first century flat.