Have You Ever Been On A Floating Island In The Sky?
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Have You Ever Been On A Floating Island In The Sky?

Beauty and I don't have a co-dependent relationship.

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Have You Ever Been On A Floating Island In The Sky?
Jazmine Anderson

Between my freshman and sophomore years of college, one of my summer jobs was deep-cleaning cabins in the central Idaho mountains – a half glorious, half insufferable job. One particular early morning, before climbing ladders, vacuuming fireplaces, scrubbing ovens and clearing out mouse poop, my co-worker and I went down to the lake just to look at it. The sunrise was stunning. The glass-like lake, the mountainous, tree-lined horizon, the beautiful red sky. It’s the kind of beautiful that words make sound cheesy, but the image itself demands admiration.

A sudden idea hit me, and I reflected out loud to my friend: That view seemed so rare and special and beautiful to me, but it actually happens every single morning in that exact same spot. Every sunrise looks that beautiful at that lake, whether anyone is there to appreciate it or not. It doesn’t matter if only the birds see it, if only the people who own the lodge see it, or if nothing sees it at all: it looks that beautiful no matter what.

That same summer, I read George Orwell’s 1984 for the first time. In one scene, Winston runs away into the woods with Julia, away from the ever-watching eyes of the government. During their rebellious adventure, they stop and are struck by a loud song from a thrush. The bird’s sound is mesmerizingly beautiful, and Winston reflects on its reason for singing, since there aren’t any other birds around for it to sing for: “What made it sit at the edge of the lonely wood and pour its music into nothingness?” He considers that there might be a microphone planted in the woods and some “beetle-like man” is on the other side listening intently. In the end, though, he decides to stop thinking about it and just enjoys with a “vague reverence.” Later, he brings up that moment to Julia:

“Do you remember,” he said, “the thrush that sang to us, that forest day, at the edge of the wood?”
“He wasn’t singing to us,” said Julia. “He was singing to please himself. Not even that. He was just singing.”

I take the bird in 1984 the same as the sunrise on Redfish Lake – it’s beautiful regardless of an audience or a reason. The thing is beautiful naturally, for the sake of being beautiful, and it doesn’t matter whether or not there is anyone there to recognize it as such.

I thought of both of these instances today during a morning walk at Mt. Angel Abbey. Beautiful images flashed everywhere I looked. Light frost on the grass. A hummingbird in a bush of flowers. The fields below the mountain covered with fog, making me feel like I was on a floating island high in the sky. Beams of light shooting through trees, made solid objects by the light forest fog. Squirrels in twos chasing each other in the trees. Birds everywhere, all calm. “It’s because they know it’s okay here,” I joked to my friend, but I think that was truer than I meant: the silence and the images of the place screamed peace and safety.

And that peace and safety reigns in that place regardless of whether or not I’m there to feel it. Morning fog happens in spite of my presence. I’m certain I’m not the first one to note the floating island feeling on the mountain. The squirrels and birds are going to duck and dive whether or not I’m around to see them. Beauty continues without me. I don’t matter to beauty.

I walked alongside my best friend down a paved path from the abbey to the main road, through the trees, past the series of art pieces depicting Christ’s crucifixion. The light and the trees and the clover on the forest floor were all relentlessly beautiful. The only thing I could think about besides the beautiful nature around me was my thankfulness for my friend walking next to me. Beauty happens whether I’m there for it or not, but something about our presence in it made me not only notice its own beauty, but I felt very strongly that we were two beautiful creations, too.

More images flashed: My friend overlooking the foggy valley. Her coat brushing mine when we sat to rest on a freezing cold bench. Her figure entering one of the cartoonishly-beautiful beams of light. Her across a room in the library from me, sitting, reading, with triangular beams of light resting all around her. She was beautiful; the place was beautiful; I felt beautiful.

Beauty happens without humans. But our interaction with it sure seems to make us more beautiful in return.

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This article has not been reviewed by Odyssey HQ and solely reflects the ideas and opinions of the creator.
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