Beauty

Our meal finished; we are in no rush to break away from entrenched family time.  

‘I recall a professor, reading a dark red covered book. This academic saw me looking, turned with a wicked smile and said…beauty is something you don’t notice until you reach a certain age. It’s invisible to children. It is there, but they look right through it. Thought we’d test this theory.’

‘So Lyric, how do you propose this will happen?’  

‘Thought we’d each pick a thing of beauty and talk about it.’

Childish faces gaze up, keen to be part of this seeming adult game. Sage begins, ‘easy, touch of an animal. Remember how much our youngest laughed to feel warm smooth fur within their fingers. Something magical in those moments.’  

My turn, ‘yes, I have to agree, except I’d like to take this into a human realm. Touch of babies’ hands, newborn scents – yeasty, milk soaked. Tiny fingers grasping parents. Half-moon fingernails.’  

Lyric is nodding.  

‘Of course, we went through so much to see our babies born. Each special from those first moments. Dim lights, busy assistants leaving us alone. Sacred moments, religious in a way, able to share arrival of a new life.’

‘I’d take beauty back long before birthing processes,’ says Sage, eyes sparkling with leaf tones now so suited to a name we selected only due to non-gender desires. Wearing the colour, in a loose shirt they pulled from a recycling bin, silver green in colour  

‘First time hearing a human heartbeat. On our hospital excursion. Squiggly lines on a graph page, an ECG reading. Did you know our hearts are activated by an electrical current?’  

I imagine a future where Sage works to nurture, cure or end a significant disease. Recalling philosophical words: We need to recognize what makes us ill in order to cure.

I am dazzled looking over at these young adults seated around our family table. Grace of tenderness in their exchanges – reaching out, needing and offering help.  

‘Dust rising from a dancer’s feet, making connections to country.’ Is River’s contribution. Early afternoon light intensifying their Rainbow Serpent shirt.  

Lyric’s eyebrow lifts, our middle child, born and named for flowing waters nearby, just sent a crashing ball through initial academic’s theories.  

‘Frangipani flowers,’ offer’s our youngest, Casey.  

I associate with leis around necks. Dancers with fluidity of waves and water, and murmuring tropical island winds.  

‘Yes,’ adds Sage. ‘Texture like skin, how much petals feel like fingertip skin. Lemon-scent, vanilla tones.’  

‘Neither wholly white nor yellow, but a blending of tones,’ offers River. ‘Pink touches on edges. A real blending.’  

‘There is a native Frangipani, completely unlike tropical American ones, with a very different bloom, tiny yellow prolific flowers.’

‘What does it smell like?’ Asks Sage.

‘Not sure, more subtle.’

‘Apparently giving Frangipani flowers is a way of informing a lover they are special,’ says Lyric. ‘Hence we both wore garlands on our marriage.’

‘Yet frequently planted around Malaysian cemeteries, scents becoming synonymous with haunting and ghosts.’

‘Which only proves different people develop unique concepts of splendour. What one person regards as simple pleasure another sees as torment.’ Explains Lyric.  

‘This is getting to be more than a word or mere sentence.’ Interrupts Sage.  

‘Frangipanis are tough and can survive drought and neglect.’ River brings our talk back to the environment. Their future role most likely among grasses, trees, earth and rainfall.  

‘Leaves can be used to make a healing poultice.’ River again.

‘How do you know these things?’ Asks Sage.

‘I read in books…and remember.’

‘Times I’ve watched you read, I must say, is a thing of beauty.’

‘If you put a Frangipani flower behind your ear, it’s this a signal of availability.’

‘Depends which ear.’  

‘I also know these trees are an ideal home for several varieties of orchid.’

Sage makes a disgusted face, ‘such grotesque shapes.’

I do not doubt they prefer flat, almost unremarkable leaf of their namesake. With a peppery undertone.  

‘Sounds of music,’ River again. ‘Those actual lyrics, Maria singing about favourite things. Raindrops on Roses, whiskers on kittens.’

‘We already did animal fur beauty thing.’ Lyric contributes.  

I cannot resist adding, ‘those are Royal Lyrics.’

‘Ha ha. What else is listed, copper kettles, warm woollen mittens, and brown paper packages tied up with string…?’

‘Probably more about shortages leading into Global Conflict.’

But we won’t be distracted by practicalities. ‘Does tip over into European centric quickly. Sleigh Bells, Schnitzels and noodles. Those cute curtain material matching outfits the whole family wore were rather lovely. Wait…wild geese who fly with moon dappled wings is a beautiful image.’  

‘Now you are playing with someone else’s images. Maybe we could try to think of something more local.’ Chides Lyric. ‘Anyway favourite things are different from beauty.’

‘Sunbeams over our valley.’ Offers River.

‘Songs of early morning magpie warbles.’

‘Frosts making grass crunchy.’ Suggests Casey.

‘Sea-mists and fogs rolling in.’ Sage again.  

‘Curious how cloaking views, obscuring things is something you might classify as beauty.’

‘Why not. There isn’t really an illumination declaring belle, harmony, exquisite on random vistas.’  

Our littlest one breaks in with, ‘waves, ocean …’

‘Let’s make it not about ocean, sea side and beach things.’ Says Lyric. ‘Right outside our windows. Make beauty a little more difficult, further away.’  

‘You are always slightly changing rules.’ Sage again.  

I want to regard this comment as pushing against their parent’s generation. Enjoy thoughts such an observation is part of maturation processes.  

‘Being able to tell when someone else is around, watching, close by.’ Is River’s next contribution, brows knitted, focused. ‘Can’t quite explain, like a pulse over empty spaces, well landscape filled only with trees, bush and native species. Strange heaviness when you share air with someone else. Subconscious recognition of another human in landscape.’  

River, middle one, with connections. Child of movement and rhythm. I am loving diversity assembled around our table.  

‘Breathing in rubbing noses.’ Lyric picks up. ‘I never realized how intense an experience of breathing in another human air.’  

‘Sunlight through road side plants. Probably weeds, fine rush like seed heads catching early morning colour, saw this while we rode our bikes just yesterday. Thought it was beautiful.’ River again.  

‘No reason a weed can’t be beautiful.’  

‘Zena princess warrior.’ Says Casey.  

An intake of breath, by our two older children.  

‘Why?’

‘Strong, yet pretty.’  

‘Little one, pretty is a construct. Different from beautiful.’  

‘So you say.’

‘Besides we’d like you to adopt non-binary language.’ Suggests Lyric.  

‘Is there an alternative for princess?’ Asks Sage. ‘Because Prince is the other end of a scale.’

‘Monarch, Royal…Yes I know you might disagree, because that’s my name.’  

‘Did your name giver want you to be a Princess?’ Asks Casey.

‘No, I took my name when I married Lyric.’  

Look over at my long term partner, recalling a group amongst trees, wandering down to a patch of exposed earth. Symmetry in our footsteps, gentle applauds of our friends. A place set to become this home, so we might spend evenings gathered with and discussing our beauties.  

By Karen Lethlean

From: Australia