“Beauty is all we know of truth, and all we need to know,” the poet wrote. And whatever we think of this as philosophy, we all discover sooner or later that beauty (unlike glamor) is ultimately mysterious. It cannot be forced, possessed, captured or tamed.
It can only be shared, and then only spontaneously.
Like the wind in the trees, sunlight through moving clouds, or the unexpected touch of a friend’s hand ..... Beauty has a mind of its own, and comes and goes as it wills. We can try to be prepared when these moments come, and we can be grateful.
But we cannot control their coming or going.
So it is with Swaledale. Whether it is the tilt of her brow in morning mist, the curve of her fells in afternoon sun, the playful sparkle of her waterfalls, or the ripeness of her river after rain -- all we can do is stand and stammer, for here is a fact that transcends our theories.
Beauty becomes incarnate in a broken world for a brief shining moment, binding together all the scraps and shards of our unfinished lives.
