… a feast of photography and prose.
I tumble into the car on a frosty morning, tired and stressed and in the throes of writing an essay that is already late. And the water on my windshield has frozen into delicate flourishes, and the sun and sky adorn them.
And I ask the water, how can you yield so easily to Beauty? How can you submit so totally to such a meticulous grace?
I wrestle with Beauty. I wrestle to own it and wield it. I am either blessed or doomed not to simply submit to it, but to will it, to share in it. I wish I could sometimes pour myself out like water and let the Beauty work on me. But, I remind myself, I am not only water; I am water and spirit, and this would be less beautiful than the wrestling.