Something Beautiful

The first things I notice when on the bus ride to Paderno del Grappa are the mountains in the distance. At first, they are hard to notice but eventually they are hard not to. And the next thing I notice is that it is impossible to take a picture of them. Being from Illinois, mountains are a rare sight for me, so I want to take a photo so I can remember the scale and beauty of them when I get back home. But whenever I try, they looked so small and insignificant, two words that do not describe mountains in the least. As de Botton says in the Art of Travel, “Humans had an innate tendency to respond to beauty and to desire to possess it” (Alain de Botton 216). I have a desire to possess the beauty of the mountains, something that does not belong to me, and something I find I am unable to possess through a photo. You cannot possess the mountains; they are all seeing, all knowing, and all powerful. To try to possess them is a foolish endeavor. But what is life if not trying to do the impossible?

As I try to describe the mountains, on a beautiful spring day in Paderno with my journal in my lap, while sitting on top of a stone wall that I’ve climbed to get a better view of them, I realize that I am at a loss for words. De Botton agrees: “Attractive places typically render us aware of our inadequacies in the area of language” (de Botton 227). So, I try to draw them instead. Suddenly I become nostalgic for things I have never even experienced, find myself longing for memories I’ve never made. I feel a sort of melancholy, both happy and sad at the same time. Happy because of the experiences I am having but sad in the knowledge that I will have to leave them far too soon. It’s a strange thing to realize that you are still in the middle of a memory. In drawing the mountains, I do not gain a drawing, as I am not an artist, but I do gain an understanding. I find I am drawing myself as much as I am the mountains. And I learn everything and nothing about both at the same time.

The mountains are a goddess, sleeping just under the surface, peaceful and yet always telling you she is here. You are reminded of your insignificance, but not in a bad way. Her grandness tells you that all the mistakes that you have made, and will make, are okay, they don’t matter. Of course you have messed up, she says, everyone has. But she holds you and tells you it’s alright, the world is so large, and you are so small. She has been here long before you, and she will be here long after you. She represents just one place in space, and yet all times. She is from a time before movement, before the chaos of our postmodern life. You can lay down and she will wrap you in her arms and carry you home, singing you her song of birds and the wind in the trees. She is peace and calm. And you almost want to cry a little because maybe everything will be okay for a while, maybe life is good.

The mountains are a titan, waiting under the surface, ready to attack. Her eyes are closed and now she is motionless, but she is always watching, muscles tensed and ready. The mountains are not the sea, who moves and waves to remind you he is there, able to pull you under at any moment. The mountains simply are, and that is enough. You are constantly reminded of her power and her strength. She will not hurt you right now, but she makes no promises about the future. She will be the judgement at the end of our days, and we must protect her, or she will have an appropriate punishment for us. She is Gaia, mother earth, everything has come from her, and everything will return to her one day.

The mountains can be both of these things at once, peace and tension, calming and threatening. A collection of contradictions, as I so often like to call myself. Both the mountains and humanity are a wild crazy combination of things that don’t make any sense, even when you try your hardest to understand them. Sometimes you do find a moment of understanding, but it escapes you in a second and you are left just as confused as before, trying desperately to grasp the last trails of that understanding. Even just 10 minutes later sitting at a picnic bench, typing this, I fail to recapture the feelings I felt while staring at the mountains’ beauty. Feelings are fleeting, you’ll never again recapture an exact emotion, not with a picture, not with a drawing, not with a memory. But we have to lean into that, and bask in these fleeting feelings, because these precious moments are all we get.

works cited:

De Botton, Alain. “On Possessing Beauty.” The Art of Travel, Random House, New York, NY, 2002, pp. 212–233.