I have sung the words of Katharine Lee Bates’ poem “O beautiful for spacious skies,” and known that I have been witness to great beauty. It is said that she wrote the poem during a trip to Colorado. I have stood at over 14,000 feet on the summit of Pikes Peak after climbing the Barr Trail as the afternoon thunderstorms moved off to the east where no point for thousands of miles rivals the altitude of that summit as a double rainbow paints from horizon to horizon against the dark clouds while behind me the sun sets across countless peaks filled with glaciers thousands of years old atop mountains that took 30 million years to rise and have stood for even longer. Streaks of red and orange and gold and purple and yellow took my breath away and defied my capacity for poetry. I have beheld beauty.

I have also witnessed the daily visits of a husband who after years of watching the memories fade from his wife’s mind was forced to admit her to a care center where cruel illness continued to rob her of her autobiography with a fierceness that was at the same time ponderous and sudden. He was always by her side when I came to visit, his daily pilgrimage continuing with unmatched fidelity as she was robbed of the memory of the names of their children and of the recognition of their shared stories and eventually of her capacity to recognize him as husband. Yet he persisted until like the simple furniture of the room and the pattern in the carpet and the routine of the meals and the paint on the wall he became a fixture in her life drained of romance and even recognition of his identity. And when she breathed her last he sat and wept while his children gathered and with a voice quiet and barely audible declared. “I have been given love and love never dies.” I have beheld beauty.

I have paddled my kayak silently across the stillness of predawn as the mist rose from the water and even the Canada geese were hushed to silence as not even a hint of a breeze could move the needles of the pine trees on the shore. I have sat in silent wonder as the lake yielded double vision perfectly aligned vertically as the sun crept above the hills to the east and spread glorious color on everything below lighting the drops of water on the deck of my boat with tiny rainbows while heron stirred from silent pose to rise with grace while emitting a prehistoric cry inviting a chorus of sound from songbirds in the trees and waterfowl floating on the surface. I have watched beaver rise and eagle fish and pike break the water’s surface in search of airborne insects. I have been witness to the glorious daily awakening of the lake surrounded by the forest. I have beheld beauty.

I have also watched as a widow, crushed to the floor with grief, shattered with shock at the violence and devastation of a single 9mm bullet fired from the chamber of a standard Glock handgun irreversibly destroying the complex brain of her beloved. She understood in the horror and trauma that the violence she would never be able to erase from her memory rose not from the weapon nor from the hand that held it but from the demons of depression and the rush of unrestrained impulse. That knowledge, however, was powerless against the wall of “could of, should of, would of” that filled her soul with guilt as devastating as her grief. I watched as she rose from the ground and bit by bit, piece by shattered piece, moment by trembling moment with tears that made her faint from dehydration, began to piece her life back together. Through pain that was more intense than she ever had known and with labor that lasted years longer than that which birthed her children, with courage that exceeded that of a soldier falling on a grenade to save their buddies and strength that diminished the power of an olympic weightlifter, she pieced together her shattered soul and gave birth to a new life with grace as much of a companion as grief and when she was able to smile through her tears glory broke free. I have beheld beauty.

I have stood atop the Athabaskan glacier and peered into deep crevasse where the ice is blue from centuries of incalculable pressure that forced the oxygen from between the water molecules leaving only pure water behind. I have sipped the cold purity dripping from ice brought to the surface by explorers. I have beheld beauty.

I have held the hand of my life’s partner as she drifted off to sleep without need for words to express the decades of silently listening to each other breathe and feeling each other’s heartbeat through fingers on wrist or hand over heart. I have adventured through memory upon memory of long walks and adventures shared, of children and grandchildren entering our partnership with powerful personalities, incredible creativity, and amazing wisdom. I have shared decades with a colleague who understood my work and the vision behind it and shared the daily grind of labor. I have sat down to a table filled with bounty produced by hours of careful preparation and presented with care and then looked across the table at the face of the most generous person I have ever known. I have felt the power of forgiveness when my words and actions have caused pain. I have looked into the eyes of one who has brought extra blankets and pillows when I have been ill and tucked the blankets around my feet when I have been weary. I have laughed and giggled and shared private jokes that no one else could understand and know that I have been known. I have known the assurance that I am loved and that love is eternal. I have beheld beauty.