Musings on personal growth, books, motherhood, writing, and more.
Lately I’ve noticed something in me that I’ve never noticed before: a craving for aesthetic fulfillment. I desire colors, music poetry, art—anything beautiful. Why? I think it’s because of winter.
During spring, summer, and fall, I am entranced by nature. Every day the sight of green mountainsides all around me fills me with a deep, blissful contentedness. I will never, ever tire of West Virginia’s beauty.
But now my land is gray and brown (and this has been a particularly bad winter), so I find myself wanting to look at beautiful art to replenish my aesthetic-input levels.
Is this normal? I don’t know [yet], but I’d be interested to know if others get what I’m calling “the grays.”
I have a few books on world art; these have provided visual feasts for me. Music and poetry are also feeding my soul. Even knitting with pretty yarn feels soothing to my spirit.
I’m working on committing Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn“ to memory, because it’s not only beautiful but also relevant to my plight: the artistic beauty of the ancient Greek urn has survived through centuries, and nature’s seasons mean nothing to it; it only “knows” one thing: beauty.