So, I admit it.

I’ve gotten myself bogged down, depressed and stressed, over the political state of our nation. Like never before, I’m finding myself obsessing over news articles, Facebook posts, and NPR reports. It is literally making me sick and tired.

I know I am not alone.

While on my morning hike with my pup, I was lost in thought, thinking about an article I had just read in today’s paper. At first I was barely conscious of what was around me, I was so wrapped up in my own head. But then I found myself focusing on the rhythm of putting one foot in front of the other, my breath started coming more easily, and I started noticing the sounds of the chickadees and the flutter of the leaves falling to my left and to my right. Then I looked up.

It was a thing of beauty.

I hike this trail almost every single day; I know this path almost as well as I know my own home. Its familiarity comforted me and surprised me.

I woke up to realize that even when the state of the world feels tumultuous, cantankerous, and scary, this world really is good. Beauty is always all around us; we just need to make up our minds to notice and appreciate it. Right then and there, I decided to challenge myself to find the beauty in the world, to focus on the good rather than the bad.

Even just deciding just that much, I couldn’t stop noticing how much beauty was around me.

So, here is my challenge: for the next 30 days, I am challenging myself to find a “Thing of Beauty” every single day. I will post my find here and on Instagram, using the hashtag #thingofbeautyalong. If you would like to join me, please post your pictures on Instagram including the hashtag #thingofbeautyalong and we can all be surrounded by beautiful things.

There is no way this can’t make all our worlds just that much brighter, right? I hope you’ll join me!

———–

A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o’ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, ’tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city’s din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I’ll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.                        –John Keats