On the outskirts of the Grand Canyon, I meet a kindred spirit.
A glorious tree hugs the edge of the narrow dirt path (a path that calls for concentration and confident steps, otherwise I could be destined to admire the Grand Canyon from its remarkable, ancient depths).
I see the tree and the tree sees me.
See and be seen.
The insightful instruction from improv class prompts me on-and-off stage to dissolve the illusion that we are separate, to step out from the behind the curtain of our egos and let our souls dance for a moment or two in the re-remembering that we are reflections of each other, that we are one.
I see the tree and the tree sees me.
A sudden impulse rushes in from the back of my heart, and with pure certainty, I follow the call.
I place my palm on the tree’s trunk, a micro-universe of ridges, valleys, plateaus presses into my skin, my lifelines connect to the lifelines of the tree.
I silently ask for permission and I receive the heart-clear yes.
I climb.
I climb like I did when I was a little girl, before fear could keep me grounded.
I climb up and up into strong limbs that lift, hold and cradle. I curl into a seat, into a perfectly shaped throne stationed in the middle of an earthly kingdom of bark, trunk and limbs.
Here I sit – in nature and within the sovereign kingdom of my own inner nature.
Here I witness the majesty of earth and this witnessing rekindles an embodied awareness of my inner aliveness, my own inherent majesty.
Here, I reunite in the flow that is life, in the life that is me.
There’s a bout of temptation to take a photo, to attempt to capture the intangible, and after a debate, I decide to leave my phone alone.
I experience the moment. Let it integrate into my cellular memory. I feel beautiful in my humanness, in my holy humanness up in the steady embrace of the tree. And this feeling of natural beauty, of breath-flowing ease is what stays with me as I climb down, and as I continue onward on the path, and curiously, it’s this memory that blooms bright and clear when I am revisiting (I will not divulge how many times) the marvelous kingdom that is the second season of Netflix’s crowning achievement, “Bridgerton.”
This Regency period-piece chronicles the love-lives of the gregarious, boisterous Bridgerton family, and has the reputation of being quite steamy (think Pride and Prejudice without the PG rating).
And while it is spring and I am in the sweetened mood to enjoy a flirtatious fling, and yes, I do swoon at Benedict Bridgerton’s puppy dog smile and particularly appreciate the quick-witted tennis game of love-sparked phrases eloquently played between Miss Sharma and the Viscount, there’s another magnetic pull between the bright-eyed Bridgertons, their world and me.
And whatever it is … it also includes that kindred-spirit of a tree.
Yes, the moment of spontaneous tree-climbing and the dashing romantic Regency period-piece are teasing me. The two have seen me, and have seen something in my soul, like a lover’s gentle and exacting gaze, and I’m softening to see why I am so enraptured with “Bridgerton” (season two, I must add because the first just didn’t have this firework effect on me) and how this Netflix sensation is connected to my tree-climbing memory.
So as I become an observant guest to the Bridgerton’s dazzling London season for the … fourth time … I’m taking note of what is really playing at my heart strings.
And the answer is beauty.
From the towering glory of Queen Charlotte’s wigs to Julie Andrews’ melodic narration, Bridgerton is a celebration of beauty in full, unapologetic bloom.
The costumes are moving masterpieces.
The dialogue is fantastically smart and fresh, enticing the attentive listener to lean in closer to the screen, eager to relish every riveting line of gossip.
The characters are human and humane – lovable, flawed, hot messes (emphasis on the HOT), and their heart-truths are spilled in twilight lush meadows teeming with wildflowers, or in pale-pink wallpapered drawing rooms peppered with paintings and drenched in sunlight streaming in from floor-to-ceiling windows.
“Bridgerton” satisfies and stirs wide-awake my soul’s deepening desire and essential need for beauty.
See, gentle reader, I’ve starved myself of beauty.
I’ve wrestled and bullied my heart’s natural longing for beauty. Out of rebellion to capitalistic industries that artificially manufacture and dictate what and what not is considered beautiful, I suppressed my deep-water yearning for beauty, fearing that saying yes to desiring beauty would make me shallow, consumeristic, or a target of attack from peers who paraded in intellectualism.
I remember once decorating tables for a bystander intervention program that I was facilitating. I had chosen glass vases for the center pieces and filled them with bright pink and lime-green bubble gum. A fellow colleague snarked that I had wasted money, and it stung, and I also knew, in an understanding that did not yet have articulate words, that I had not wasted money.
By communing with a force beyond me, I had made the table beautiful so the participants could see the beauty and use the power of beauty as we traveled together to talk about serious and heart-heavy topics.
There’s another story in here, too. A story about a Holocaust survivor who recounts that he made it his mission to find beauty every day, even if that meant finding beauty in the fish head that was his supper. He said looking for beauty and allowing himself to find it was the life-sustenance that saw him through.
We need beauty.
Beauty fortifies our spirits with the essential nutrients to live fully, bravely and with hearts open and listening. We are beauty and we live in an elegantly orchestrated universe that perpetually and abundantly expresses itself through the language of beauty.
I now do have the language to express and advocate for the value of beauty. And this is thanks to Irish theologian and poet, John O’Donohue. He writes that our culture is obsessed with glamor, and glamor is not beauty.
“The human soul is hungry for beauty,” and he continues - even argues that the corruption and dreariness that can haunt our modern world is because we have denied and shunned the vital life-giving importance of beauty.
Though “Bridgerton” does romanticize and focus on the leisurely lifestyle of the upper Regency class, a world that could waltz around glamor, I sense that my attraction to the story is also because it presents a world untouched by technology, plastic, factories.
When I ventured up into the Grand Canyon tree, that natural world of peacefulness and harmony awaited me. I returned to that sacred place of peacefulness and harmony. I chose to keep that world freed from the inference of my technology so I could rejoin the pace that is nature, and reunite with my human nature.
That world is still here, and is here for you, too.
We can rejoin the unhurried pace that is nature and is the pace of our bodies, by living into this spring. By placing bare feet on the earth, or just letting ourselves be seen – by the trees, the tulips, the emerald grass. When we let ourselves witness the beauty of nature, the beauty of nature rekindles the same beauty that is ourselves. Consciousness communing with consciousness.
And when we realize the radiance of our true nature, we naturally want to live lives that reflect our exquisite essence.
Does this mean I will be bustling about town in the search for “Bridgerton” fashioned gowns? Or checking up on Amazon to see if I could upgrade my tea set? Or buy a peacock for my backyard? A polite no.
I will grant myself full permission to feel, receive, revel and create beauty. And maybe if I do see a tiara and that tiara winks at me, I’ll secure a new fashion piece.
Either way, the next time I receive the invitation to climb a tree, I will climb steadily up, with my head held high, wearing a crown that we all share. When we remember our innate majesty, we see it within ourselves and we see this mirrored in the trees, in the actors and artists behind the “Bridgerton” scenes. We look and know this presence of beauty is everywhere, and we celebrate this, perhaps with English tea.