Lightning Bolts of Beauty

May They Electrify Your Soul

Sometimes I am struck into stillness by small flashes of brilliant beauty. Like the pure joy of a baby’s smile or the delicate resilience of a bird’s nest or the soothing sound of wind whispering through leaves.

Or the way our dogs follow me from room to room just to be near. Or the grace with which my husband comes to find me no matter how briny I have been.

This morning I was struck by the poem below.

One Summer Day on the Number One Train

By Anne Whitehouse

When the doors of the express opened at 72 Street,

the local was waiting. She entered with me,

tall and angular as a crane, her expression alert,

violin poised against her clavicle like a wing.

 

The train was half-empty, the passengers dozing

or absorbed in their smartphones.

She stood at one end of the car, her gaze

swiftly appraising us, while the doors slid shut.

 

Closing her eyes, she lifted her bow

and dipped her chin, and into that pause

went all the years of preparation

that had brought her to this moment.

 

The train accelerated in a rush of cacophony,

her music welled up, and I recognized

a Bach concerto blossoming to fullness

like an ever-opening rose. Suddenly

 

I was crying for no reason and every reason,

in front of strangers. I thought of the courtroom

where, an hour ago, I’d sat listening to testimony

with fellow jurors, charged to determine the facts

 

and follow the law. But no matter how we tried,

we couldn’t reverse damage or undo wrong.

The music was contrast and balm, like sunlight

in subterranean air. The tears wet on my cheeks,

 

I broke into applause, joined by fellow passengers.

We’d become an audience, her audience,

just before the doors opened and we scattered.

Making my offering, I exited, too shy to catch her eye.

 

But she’d seen the effect her music had wrought.

Its echo resounded in my memory, following me

into the glory of the summer afternoon.

It is with me still.

I love poetry that opens a door to deeper understanding.

I have often wondered why I can be so emotionally overwhelmed by random acts of beauty and kindness. It makes me feel overly sensitive or emotionally soft.

But Anne Whitehouse’s courthouse provided just the counterpoint to help me understand why such acts have such impact. And why my response is more a sign of being awake than weak.

I am braced for difficulty and disappointment– for the weight of injustices I can’t undo and losses I cannot regain.

Unexpected beauty hits me below the belt of expectation.

It takes my breath away.

As did this complete stranger’s sonata.

So this morning as the boys and I were deciding on our intention for the day, I read them this poem and said my intention was to look for the sonatas in everything I do today.

Because sometimes beauty is powerful enough to tear us away from our smartphone. Sometimes it is compelling enough to wake us up from our Ferris wheel of thoughts.

But often it is not.

Often, beauty is small. And subtle. And intimate. Often, it requires finely focused binoculars of perception.