The View

April 7, 2014

Greetings from where we look again,

I asked a friend of mine: “Do you think that people who live here ever get bored with the scenery?”

There is a philosophic concept that suggests that the universe unfolded as it has, so that one day there would be thoughtful creatures such as ourselves to wonder and live in awe of the universe.  This is one vein of ‘Anthropic Theory’ which suggests that without intelligent life to observe and appreciate the perfect progression that provided the environment for intelligent life to exist, creation would not fulfill its purpose.

It is a complex way of saying: If a tree fell in the forest, and Stephen Hawking wasn’t there to observe it, would it make any noise?

We were east of the Rockies, far enough out to see the range, to appreciate the majesty, the scale, the beauty of the mountains.  The peaks were spectacular, tipped in snow, breathtaking as they rose above the plains leading into the foothills.  Roads snaked among tree lined canyons leading to dramatic vistas in the altitudes above. 

I wondered if people came outside their homes each morning and stood in awe.  Or if at some point it became just background to a commute.

Where I live the drama in the landscape is far more subtle, created by the furrows between the corn.  It holds its own simple beauty but would not inspire Ansel Adams.  It’s easy to take for granted, because it seems so common, so ordinary.  It doesn’t seem to rank with the power of the Rockies.  Unless I am wrong.

This weekend I was visiting a home on the east coast of the Mitten State.  The day was bright and clear, an exchange of winter for spring, still cool, but hints of something warmer coming. 

The house perched on the edge of the lake, panoramic glass facing the broad water.  Someone had designed the place to honor the view.  Trees framed the house, but didn’t obstruct the grandeur of Lake Huron.  The man in the house sat in his chair, his laptop balanced on his knees.  He browsed and frowned and twitched.  Behind him, the view waited.

The blue sky slid down to a band of grey on the horizon and then to sharp contrast to the deep, cobalt water.  The lake was stretched out across as far as could be seen north to south, textured with waves seeming to move in all directions. 

And all along the shoreline, the crust of the winter’s ice was piled up in enormous white crumbs.  Brilliant against the dark blue, floating in the frigid water, some crushed on the sand, it looked as if the surf had solidified in motion, stood still, waiting for its portrait to be taken.

I stood at the window and wondered how any chair in the house could not be facing the water.

Driving back through the empty fields of my Midwest mundaneness, I envied the people in their lake house, the inspirational beauty rollicking just outside their window.  Of course when something spectacular is in front of you every day, it is easy to begin to take it for granted. 

Last summer, I met a group of visitors from South Korea, here on a cultural exchange.  One of the questions they were asked was ‘What surprised you about your visit here?”  One of the men answered, in hesitant English, that he was awestruck at the size and beauty of Great Lakes.  The largest body of fresh water in the universe.

Some years ago I spent time out in South Dakota with a man from New York City.  We were sitting outside having coffee and he told me he had felt unsettled ever since he arrived and finally was able to name why.  He said that the hugeness of the open space was unnerving to him, that it changed his perspective.  He spoke with tears in his eyes, waved his hand at the wide empty prairie around, us and marveled at its incredible beauty.

In each alley there is character. The fire escape, the arched window, the old wooden door, the brass fittings, the steaming manhole cover.  In every crease in the earth there is texture, rocks, soil, flowers, a tiny creek, bustling its way to some larger body waiting to carry it all somewhere.  In the dome above us, scattered puffy clouds or searing lightning, or a cerulean blue canvas.  The sun boldens with the morning, and promises at night, and the stars and moon create their drama in between.   Every shadow, every tree branch, each living thing moving between the gaps in the world, gives beauty to those who would only look.  Or look again.

I don’t know if our purpose is to observe the universe, or if the creation’s purpose is to be observed, but I sense that the being really aware of our world is part of the joy of living.  I realize this morning that it takes fresh eyes to truly see the beauty in what becomes ordinary, no matter the landscape.  When we intentionally seek it out, patiently, it appears in its fullest.

“Never lose an opportunity of seeing anything beautiful, for beauty is God's handwriting.”  Emerson

Hope this finds you living with purpose,

David

Copyright © 2014 David Smith