𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 πƒπŽ 𝐖𝐄 π‹πŽπ’π„ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐄 πƒπŽπβ€™π“ 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 π–πŽπ‘πƒπ’? | Beverly Carroll

𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 πƒπŽ 𝐖𝐄 π‹πŽπ’π„ 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐄 πƒπŽπβ€™π“ 𝐇𝐀𝐕𝐄 π–πŽπ‘πƒπ’?

Annie Dillard died Tuesday.

I have loved her writing for years. Her book, The Abundance, is a collection of some of her most powerful, most lovely essays, and today, following the news of her death, I found myself thinking again about a line of hers that stopped me the first time I read it:

β€œπ΄π‘™π‘™ π‘‘β„Žπ‘œπ‘ π‘’ π‘‘β„Žπ‘–π‘›π‘”π‘  π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿ π‘€β„Žπ‘–π‘β„Ž 𝑀𝑒 β„Žπ‘Žπ‘£π‘’ π‘›π‘œ π‘€π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘‘π‘  π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘’ π‘™π‘œπ‘ π‘‘.”

It arrested me anew.

It felt as though she had reached into my soul and identified the very reason I write. It’s a reason I knew long before I ever saw it on the page, but not one I’m sure I could have articulated as succinctly.

I write to make sense of what has happened and what will.

I write to keep what matters from slipping away.

My writing serves as both a chronicle and a compass, reminding me of where I’ve been while pointing the way for what awaits.

Grief and beauty, for me, have always seemed inextricably bound together.

There is no escaping this strange alchemy of brokenness, grief, loss, and pain suffused with wonder, joy, discovery, and delight.

There is an aching beauty to it all.

Beauty has always moved me, sometimes more than my heart can contain.

β€œπ΄ π‘‘β„Žπ‘–π‘›π‘” π‘œπ‘“ π‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘’π‘‘π‘¦ 𝑖𝑠 π‘Ž π‘—π‘œπ‘¦ π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘’π‘£π‘’π‘Ÿ,” Keats wrote, and I feel that.

For me, beauty has never been easily overlooked or taken for granted. It awakens that deep longing C.S. Lewis wrote about, the longing whose origin he could never quite name, the longing that feels somehow like home and homesickness at the same time.

Beauty soothes, but it also awakens wonder, even in hearts that ache. Sometimes tears accompany it, but the wonder remains.

It is a bittersweet juxtaposition, this mingling of ache and awe.

I heard a song recently that left me weeping over my morning coffee:
π‘†π‘œ π‘‘π‘œπ‘›β€™π‘‘ π‘π‘Ÿπ‘¦ π‘œπ‘£π‘’π‘Ÿ π‘šπ‘’
π‘†π‘Žπ‘£π‘’ π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ π‘‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘  π‘“π‘œπ‘Ÿ π‘”π‘œπ‘œπ‘‘ π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘‘ π‘Žπ‘›π‘‘ π‘ π‘Žπ‘‘ π‘šπ‘œπ‘£π‘–π‘’π‘  𝐺𝑖𝑣𝑒 π‘™π‘œπ‘£π‘’ π‘Žπ‘€π‘Žπ‘¦ π‘™π‘–π‘˜π‘’ 𝑖𝑑’𝑠 π‘“π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘’
𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑒𝑑 π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ β„Žπ‘’π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘‘ 𝑔𝑒𝑑 π‘‘π‘œπ‘Ÿπ‘› π‘Žπ‘π‘Žπ‘Ÿπ‘‘ 𝑏𝑦 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘’π‘‘π‘¦ π·π‘œπ‘›’𝑑 π‘ π‘π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘›π‘‘ π‘‘β„Žπ‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘’π‘”β„Ž π‘¦π‘œπ‘’π‘Ÿ 𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑒
π‘Šπ‘Žπ‘™π‘˜ 𝑏𝑦 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘Ÿπ‘–π‘£π‘’π‘Ÿπ‘ π‘–π‘‘π‘’
π‘€π‘’π‘Žπ‘›π‘‘π‘’π‘Ÿ π‘‘β„Žπ‘Ÿπ‘œπ‘’π‘”β„Ž 𝑖𝑛 π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ π‘‘π‘Žπ‘›π‘π‘–π‘›π‘” π‘™π‘–π‘”β„Žπ‘‘
β€˜πΆπ‘Žπ‘’π‘ π‘’ π‘€β„Žπ‘’π‘› 𝑖𝑑 π‘˜π‘–π‘π‘˜π‘ , 𝑖𝑑 π‘‘π‘œπ‘’π‘ π‘›’𝑑 β„Žπ‘Žπ‘™π‘“ 𝑠𝑑𝑖𝑛𝑔
π‘†π‘œ π‘šπ‘Žπ‘˜π‘’ π‘Ž π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘Žπ‘™ 𝑏𝑖𝑔 π‘‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘™ π‘œπ‘’π‘‘ π‘œπ‘“ π‘Žπ‘™π‘™ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ 𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 π‘‘β„Žπ‘–π‘›π‘”π‘ 
π‘€π‘Žπ‘˜π‘’ π‘Ž π‘Ÿπ‘’π‘Žπ‘™ 𝑏𝑖𝑔 π‘‘π‘’π‘Žπ‘™ π‘œπ‘’π‘‘ π‘œπ‘“ π‘Žπ‘™π‘™ π‘‘β„Žπ‘’ 𝑙𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑙𝑒 π‘‘β„Žπ‘–π‘›π‘”π‘ .

Maybe that is the lesson:

to slow down and take it all in,
to let beauty take up residence no matter what state our hearts are in,
to make a big deal of the little things, understanding that they were never really little at all.

Writing is the only way I have found to make sense of the happenings of my life.

It’s how I store them up for safekeeping.
It’s how I refuse to allow them to be forgotten.

Because Annie Dillard was right.

The things for which we have no words are lost.

So I forage for words to chronicle what most of us have felt along the way, but struggled to name.

Words that keep the beauty alive.

Words that make it impossible to forget that we lived and loved and lost and learned.

For every one of you who has taken the time to read my words, or has found some piece of your own story within mine, I am honored to walk these paths of beauty and ache alongside you.

Tonight, I am especially grateful for a woman who spent her life paying attention to this astonishing world, and then gave us words for what she saw.

Rest well, Annie Dillard.

Your words are not lost.

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