As I write, on the day celebrated by some Orthodox as the feast of the Transfiguration on the Julian calendar, I’ve had several experiences of beauty just this morning. The sunrise through the West Virginia trees, the sunlight streaming into an Orthodox monastery church and illuminating the rising incense smoke around the icons, the chant, the memory of the faces of those I love, on and on.
While I drove across the country this summer, I imagined, or at least hoped, that I was more aware of and attentive to the beauty surrounding me than I had been on similar voyages earlier in my life. This may have stemmed from my grandly calling the trip a “pilgrimage,” and trying to travel accordingly.
The Transfiguration may be the most beautiful moment in recorded history. Peter, James, and John were mortal sinners chosen to witness the fullness of beauty: Christ as God alongside two great prophets. The pleasure that God the Father spoke of at that moment is the pleasure of the source of all beauty.
But for all that, beauty remains a mystery to me. I’ve always thought that I don’t “do beauty” well.
It’s a confusing subject. “There’s no accounting
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