Like a rainbow reflected in water, or the pattern of clouds across the sky, life as it is now is our gift. That there is nothing more beautiful for us to find.
My husband is an atheist. I asked him once, how can that be, that all we have are these moments? That holding our breath and waiting for true beauty to reveal itself wastes our only chance to experience the truly beautiful? He remarked without hesitation, “That’s what makes it so beautiful. It is just these moments.” I was stunned by his revelation and immediately the tears began to flow. In that brief second of time I could see the beauty of the world through my husband’s lens. Like a rainbow reflected in water, or the pattern of clouds across the sky, life as it is now is our gift. That there is nothing more beautiful for us to find. I also saw my husband’s true beauty. That here is a man who is good for the sake of goodness, not out of fear of some looming punishment. A man who refuses to take any part of the great tapestry of life for granted. Because of that, he sees what God sees. He appreciates the hum of the elements coming together as one unending symphony of life, wherein Heaven and Hell exist only in the mind, as does our creator.
One can easily understand this philosophy. That rather than God, it is WE who choose how the brush strokes meet the paper to create the masterpiece that is LIFE, that we are as God, truly choosing our own destinies, inventing our own realities, deciding how the masterpiece of the world will appear.
It is not a choice to love each individual raindrop of the ocean of creation. But what we do with that love IS a choice. Do we run from it? Do we throw it away by assigning responsibility for its care to some unseen deity? Or do we surrender to our love of the world and its many precious creatures? I agree with my husband wherein loving a collection of raindrops that when gathered together equal the water of life is an indescribably beautiful thing- A thing granted only those souls profound enough to accept it.
In this life, we choose our reality. We label our moments as either worthy or that which must be thrown away. But what if? What if we are throwing away the good stuff? What then? I’ve heard therapists and doctors talk about mindfulness as an antidote to depression and at first I felt confused by the idea. I didn’t understand how to be mindful on a level that would change anything about how I felt. But to view mindfulness though the lens of imagining that my raindrop and its role in the great art of the world is of the same importance as the ocean of drops surrounding it, I can then surrender my inner critic and experience each breath of life the way life is meant to be experienced. Without the constant editorial presence we develop along the road to adulthood. Great works of art are made up of elements. Artists realize this. That the individual brush strokes are what create the final image. That without each connection of the brush to the page, the image would be a different thing. Distinctly and irreversibly changed. We are each of us a brush stroke, creating the masterpiece of our world. We choose what our art becomes. The painting only God can see. God being the greatest artist and alive only if we choose Him to be for ourselves.
My daughter is sick. She has the flu and pneumonia. When my children are sick I always focus in on each tender moment with them, terrified of losing them to their illnesses. I watch the rise and fall of their chests when they breathe, I feel the dampness of their foreheads, the heat of their cheeks when they are flushed with fever. I listen to their coughing, analyzing the sound in case they don’t cough in the doctor’s office. I am completely aware of them, mindful of their existence. Their beauty becomes even more poignant because I am aware of how precious they are, and how vulnerable. I am not afraid to love them, even though to do so is to surrender myself to the possibility of loss.
Religion teaches us not to love the world, that there is a greater beauty beyond its borders. In the bible John 2:15 states:
Love not the world, neither the things that are in the world. If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him.
This is not the only example. When I was a bahai I was taught the same thing. The Bahai writings state:
O friend, the heart is the dwelling of eternal mysteries, make it not the home of fleeting fancies; waste not the treasure of Thy precious life in employment with this swiftly passing world. Thy comest from the world of holiness- bind not thine heart to the earth; thou art a dweller in the court of nearness- choose not the homeland of the dust.
In both of these messages there is a great emphasis on detachment as a means of coping with potential loss. It’s as if we are told to resist falling in love. A wonderful movie called Jack and The Cuckoo Clock Heart is almost an ode to this idea. Anyone who hasn’t seen it needs to. The protagonist Jack is born with a heart of ice and it is replaced with a cuckoo clock. He is told it will work only if he never falls in love. The moment he falls in love his life is over. The clock stops when he gives into his heart’s desire. He basically has power over his own life and yet he doesn’t because how do you control falling in love? Again I think of my children. The fact that I could never accept that losing them would do anything other than rip a gaping hole in the world’s tapestry. That for me, the world would not be as beautiful without them. The image would be dramatically and irreversibly changed. I admit my love of them and of the world. I admit loving the details that comprise my reality in all of its diverse glory. I love them and the world because quite simply they are worth loving. I will forever rage against and mourn for their loss if they were to be torn away from the great work of art that is life. It is my right.
Esteemed architect Miles van der Rohe famously coined the phrase “God is in the details.” I love this saying because it attributes meaning to the small parts that make up the whole. It highlights the beauty of the elements that would otherwise be lost in the grand scheme. van der Rohe knew what atheists know, what other lovers of perfect situations and circumstances know. That beauty is what we say it is. That each moment is precious, but it is up to us to claim it. To emphasize the beauty of each individual piece of wood, metal or glass that fits together to create a building so beautiful it catches one’s breath. To fight for the recognition and protection of such beautiful things simply for the reason they are there, for us to love. It is up to me whether or not to fight for my right to be thoroughly attached to the raindrop that is my child. To fight for the right to love the image of the world that is created with my child in it, knowing I will forever mourn the loss of it should that image change. It is still worth taking that leap. Falling in love with your child, with your lover, with the world. Even though all things change and all things die, what we know of them will still exist if only in what they left the world and the memories they left the ones who loved them. It is up to us to be grateful that although the moments did not last, their memories will always echo through the chambers of our minds. That although the image was temporary, I was there and witnessed the harmony of the elements of the world through the lens of my experience. And the beauty of it did bring my to my knees and I felt blessed.