During one of my short breaks from writing, I walked the modest path meandering through my backyard and viewed the young dogwood tree with its first-ever pink blooms, a sure sign of recuperating from a bout of fungus. Nearby, emboldened violets fill the interior of the fire pit. Each year furthers the transformation of this small plot of land into a refuge for bees, bats, and birds, pluckings for salad, inspiration for creative work and healing, and a space for meditation. When I pour compost-rich water onto the tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, basil, and cilantro, a part of me enlivens as if my own chlorophyll bathes in the sunlight.
A close look at the leaves reveals their venation, reticulated, palmate, or parallel, unfurling or spreading, and their particular shade of green best identified by naming the plant. I lean into peer at the ferns, hostas, and rhododendrons as if to hear secrets they may impart. But it’s not words I seek during these garden respites but a marveling and connecting with nature and beauty. Regardless of whether the sun is high in the sky, the moon peers down between branches, or the yard is shrouded by fog, and beauty awaits the dilation of my pupils, my heart and attention tuned to nature’s changes.
Shape and color delay my return to pending work. Or it’s the wind swaying a stem or a ladybug hiking across a leaf. These are the siren calls that disrupt my usual preoccupations. I am summoned to witness and tower above them like a giant, careful not to crush these delicate forms with an inattentive step. They are reminders of resilience, an intimate call to my own nature, and a marvel at how life unfolds. We grow alongside each other. We journey out from the earth. Witnessing feels like a high calling and an opening that returns me to the home of my body.
A similar summons occurs when I gaze upon an infant. We share a field of curiosity and love. In that invitational space, I’ve no disagreements with life, no need to assert a claim, no need to do anything other than align with what is taking place and breathe in the awe of homecoming.
I hope most of us have experienced a similar exquisite connection with a beloved, be it a family member, pet, or plant, the separateness of our life expanded by another’s presence, the heart pulsing in a quiet ecstasy. Such unity waters and fertilizes being. The connection amplifies the breadth of who we are and reinforces a sense of belonging that includes our achievements as well as our imperfections and unfinished tasks. What takes place is experiencing inclusion in something larger than our limiting ego, often wrangling for top place. Turning away from a vibrant connection feels like a violation of natural laws, an existential fall, a violence against being, the delusion of an isolate, a symptom of toxic individualism. Instead, there is only one wise choice: turning toward. Turning toward is to join a consciousness larger than our singular worries, despair, and hopes. We get to whisper with the wind, follow the flight of hummingbirds, or sit beneath the maple tree. The process assigns us membership into a club whose doors remain open, and no forms or background checks are needed. Just us, as is; no references needed.
This joyful connection, like a ripe peach for the soul, also happens with art, poetry, music, and dance, among the reasons many of us agree to practice them or be their audience. A brush stroke, a verbal phrase, the reach of an outstretched arm, or a vibrato filling a room quickens the heart, activates mirror neurons, and alters consciousness. Who we were a moment ago shifts. Thoughts usually jostling for position settle down. The heart steadies into an easy, wondrous beat as if lights turn off in one part of the room to illuminate the entire house, as if pain dissolves into relief, as if exile from a tribe ends with a feast for tongue, ears, heart, and soul, as if every precious moment, every trial, hope, and aspiration was preparation for this moment which is perfect.
The beauty is unmistakable. Over here, it says, and gladly we go to receive its gifts. Imagine the mosaic ceiling of a chapel or mosque or the jeweled torso of a beetle. Recall the shudder when a warm voice and a gentle hand upon our arm melted the freeze of our hearts and rekindled the glow of love. Recall the resplendent harmony and compulsive beat of music. Attention broadens, and the mind opens to a design of grandeur, a shift that is humbling and awe-inspiring. Beauty is a portal to an expanded consciousness and irrefutable splendor.
The call to practice art, poetry, music, or dance opportunities to engage beauty in its creative flow that is unconditionally welcoming and resonant. Just be. Just express. Creativity embraces our idiosyncratic rhythms, hesitations, alacrity, sloppiness, and grace, saying, seeing, and motion, the boundaries of self-edging inward and outward simultaneously. We touch into the intimacy of our body and the region larger than our usual sensing. We stir the cauldron of the unconscious toward consciousness. A creative practice puts us in dialog with nature, with integration, with the unfolding of order and chaos. Any medium works when we alternate control with letting go, soliciting form with being informed, when we engage imaginably, inviting a dreamlike awareness and a furthering of cognitive awareness. Deep satisfaction arises from riding the waves of expression, one word or image or note offering its hand to the next, one gesture spilling into the next, a flow state that connects into a field that is affirming, inspiring, and generative.
Experiences of beauty, be it with nature, art, or a beloved, situate us in the thick of life as an integral player who has pursued or lucked into a moment of connection. I wish an experience of beauty upon everyone. Such connections recalibrate temperament and shift brain chemistry to release dopamine and oxytocin, hormones that reinforce joy and a sense of belonging. Such connections renew our sense of purpose and authenticity. The connection reduces stress, the harbinger of so many illnesses. Instead, all systems shift toward balance; we are situated in contentment crowned by an acceptance of all that is. This deep connection, no part of us exiled, is, I believe, what most of us want.
By Cheryl Pallant
