Saturday, June 4, 2011

Beauty is its own excuse for being

Sometimes I wonder what the point of this blog is. When blogging, some people realize they are good writers and write a book - some people have an intriguing subject and gain alot of followers..... and probably write a book too. Some people use it to make an income - with advertising and self-promotion. Well, I fall into none and neither of these categories because I have no followers besides my sweetest mother :) (Just kidding, there is my sweetest husband a couple friends) and I make no money from it and I don't want to write a book because I don't know what to write about and it will take too long. My blog is not subject specific - I don't write about cancer only, kids only, nutrition only, or doctor's-wife-life only, or food only... These are the most effective blogs - but you know what? I don't want to. Life is varied and my brain flows with life and it is varied as well. This is not my job, this is my hobby and I write because I like to - I find humor in life and I reflect on life and that is what I write about. And because of this, it may be that the only people who are interested in this blog of my speaking fingers is people who know me...
and that is ok!

There is a poem called Rhodora by Ralph Waldo Emerson. And anytime I think about something that has no purpose but to exist for its own sake of existing, I think of this poem. Why do I buy flowers for my home? Because they are pretty. What is the purpose of these things? No purpose but for me to walk by them and say, "they are pretty." This blog serves little purpose but to be a blog - to entertain a few and to make me mindful. Enjoy!


In May winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook.
The purple petals fallen in the pool
Made the black water with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why
This charm is wasted on the earth and sky,
Tell them, dear, that, if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for Being;
Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose!
I never thought to ask; I never knew;
But in my simple ignorance suppose
The self-same power that brought me there, brought you.

Ralph Waldo Emerson

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