The Uses Of Beauty

1 Father would take us to a slough behind the Mississippi. There, among the cypress stumps we'd fish our Sunday afternoons away. Once, as I sat with pole in hand, something splashed in a nearby pool. I turned to see the rippling water alive as silver gleaming, rainbow forms broke surface, then dove down again in streamlined arcs. It seemed the sun itself had broken up and come down there! Apollo's fish, I wonder now, swimming in their sacred pool? I got my net and caught those flashing wonders, one by one, until no more living miracle disturbed that pool— don't remember if we even fried them up. 2 I remember, too, the first time I saw mountains. Dad drove us through the Ozarks, down in Arkansas. The highway wound, and suddenly a scenic overlook of valley, hills and sky. I felt my spirit expand in wonder, but after I'd looked awhile, my thoughts caught up. Body tense, my mind churned restlessly: 'What do you do with all that Beauty? ' 3 Half a century has passed. I look back at that boy and see his restlessness in wars and strip mines, in the rape of land or persons, the hunting of a lovely deer. He could not admire those fish and let them be, for voices shouted in his head, his knotted body shook with tics, he harbored tales that he was shamed to share. How could he, then, meet beauty on her naked, quiet terms? This is the story of our land and times: until we're empty, our self-hate makes her our victim.