Beauty wins
I'm trying to tell you what I've heard
An audio version of this piece, read by me, can be accessed by clicking below.
What might I say to explain the perfection of this place? Could you comprehend it if I told you how it feels to settle into the curve of this belly, the soft cup of this cradle after a day without rest? These pollen-dusted walls, damp with nightfall, a gold-bright pocket of warmth, are as close as I ever get to the arms of a mother. I do not serve myself. I serve the good of others.
Which of my music will reach beyond your ears? I know more of depth and resonance than I can possibly convey. Singer, sound-weaver, mysterious and transcendent, I am shaped by currents older than memory. I carry the knowledge of who you were meant to be. My songs are maps handed across generations of ancient migrations, the silence of deep trenches, and the pulse of the Earth itself. I am its largest living observer, a container for its wonders and its tragedies. In my voice, the sea speaks—and I will keep singing, so long as there is water to hold me.
Like you, I have known hunger and winter. I have led, and I have followed. Here, there is no word for mine, only the warm flank of the pack, the steam of shared kill in the gloaming, the heat of breath against my neck. Will you listen with me for pawfall, will the crackle of ice raise your nose to the drift of predator and prey? When the strong among us falter, others rise. When we are scattered, we gather again. I am made of muscle and majesty, of trails that vanish and return. I have howled for the lost, and the forest remembers.
Do you see where the light hits broken things? I am a student of pattern, a keeper of glint and glimmer, a voice that echoes into emptiness. I have watched your cities from above, scavenged your leftovers, nested in the branches of time, traveled to the beyond. I remember your faces. I remember your wars. You are made of air and water, yet you curse the sky. Have you heard me speak your name as I fly?
How can I wash the ash from my mouth? Where can I escape the rising water? When will the sirens that won’t let my child sleep be silenced? Will my belly ever be full again? I was not made for this kind of running. My body longs to trust the earth, to believe the music, to rediscover kinship.
What is the flavor of sunlight? What is the color of fear? Do trees speak a common language? Do mountains feel the passage of time? What sound does stillness make?
I am the one crafting poetry out of rubble. Do not call me fragile. Do not think me foolish. I am the wound and the witness. I am a thread not yet broken.
Among those still putting forth effort here are those convinced it’s too late, those who believe the human experiment has failed. But they haven’t stopped feeling what the world has to offer. The question isn’t who is right or wrong, rather it is: What am I doing to make it better? When I look for what I want to see, then amplify what I discover, beauty wins. When I refuse to look away from unbearable suffering, then believe in goodness anyway, beauty wins. When I allow bees and whales, wolves and crows, wildfires and floods, wars and hungers to take up space in the same heart — and still go on making the most of the time I have left — beauty wins.
Our stories pass between hands like bread. The ones who rest, the ones who sing, the ones who scavenge our ruins have something left to teach us. I’m trying to listen. I’m trying to tell you what I’ve heard.
~Elizabeth
p.s. There is an important afterward on this one that I hope you’ll take a few extra minutes to read below.
The bare beginnings of today’s essay, that of imagining myself as wild animal, were prompted at a
Write-In, led by one of four fabulous writers: , , and . It wasn’t until after I happened upon a pair of sleeping bumblebees in my garden last week that the rest of the piece emerged.These are common eastern bumblebees, Bombus impatiens. Both are ladies, workers in bee societies, according to my bee scientist friend, Sam Droege.
Sam has dedicated 40 years of his life to federal work and scientific research, largely focused on bees. He and the lab he runs, in Beltsville, Maryland, are caught up in the Trump administration’s budget cuts and recently announced USDA reorganization. While there appear to be no absolutes yet, all signs point to the near-term closing of the Beltsville “Bee Lab.” I urge you to read two more pieces to better understand what this means.
This federal program helps track America's ecosystems. Trump's budget would gut it — NPR, June 27
Sam’s own comments, shared on Facebook (no account required) on June 30. As he says, “Speak out. Make your children proud.”
Thank you for spending this time with me today. If today’s piece resonated with you, I’d love to continue the conversation in the comments. Did a particular moment or image stand out? Feel free to share your wild encounters, stories, or questions.
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I’m grateful you’re here.
"When I refuse to look away from unbearable suffering, then believe in goodness anyway, beauty wins. When I allow bees and whales, wolves and crows, wildfires and floods, wars and hungers to take up space in the same heart — and still go on making the most of the time I have left — beauty wins." Also, I win today, just by pausing long enough to read this.
What a stunning meditation. Thank you for sharing it with us. 🩷