Quotes About Beauty

There's one thing you can say for air pollution, you get utterly amazing sunrises.

I want to feel both the beauty and the pain of the age we are living in. I want to survive my life without becoming numb. I want to speak and comprehend word of wounding without having these words becomg the landscape where I dwell. I want to possess a light touch that can elevate darkness to the realm of stars.

Beauty is transformed over time, and not without destruction.

Is this the curse of modernity, to live in a world without judgment, without perspective, no context for understanding or distinguishing what is real and what is imagined, what is manipulated and what is by chance beautiful, what is shadow and what is flesh?

And so we polish our own lives, creating landscapes and canyons and peaks with the very silt we try to avoid, the dirt we disavow or hide or deny. It is the dirt of our lives—the depressions, the losses, the inequities, the failing grades in trigonometry, the e-mails sent in fear or hate or haste, the ways in which we encounter people different from us—that shape us, polish us to a heady sheen, make us in fact more beautiful, more elemental, more artful and lasting.

Shards of glass can cut and wound or magnify a vision. Mosaic celebrates brokenness and the beauty of being brought together

I return to the wilderness to remember what I have forgotten, that the world can be wholesome and beautiful, that the harmony and integrity of ecosystems at peace is a mirror to what we have lost.

Our national parks are memory palaces where our personal histories reside.

I could walk forever with beauty. Our steps are not measured in miles but in the amount of time we are pulled forward by awe. This is another gift from our national parks, to be led by the vistas, to forget what nags us at home and remember what sustains us, the horizon.

To this day, my spiritual life is found inside the heart of the wild. I do not fear it, I court it. When I am away, I anticipate my return, needing to touch stone, rock, water, the trunks of trees, the sway of grasses, the barbs of a feather, the fur left behind by a shedding bison.

It is a day of angled light and flat-bottomed clouds floating in a turquoise sky.

This is a landscape that should not be sold.

Today majesty is the length from where I stand to the summit of the mountain we are climbing. This mountain has majesty and hold its own authority above all others.

Artifacts are alive. Each has a voice. They remind us what it means to be human - that it is our nature to survive, to create works of beauty, to be resourceful, to be attentive to the world we live in.

The purpose of life is to see," the writer Jack Turner

I want to feel both the beauty and the pain of the age we are living in. I want to survive my life without becoming numb. I want to speak and comprehend words of wounding without having these words become the landscape where I dwell. I want to possess a light touch that can elevate darkness to the realm of stars.

In the open space of democracy, beauty is not optional, but essential to our survival as a species.

What will we make of the life before us? How do we translate the gifts of solitary beauty into the action required for true participatory citizenship?

By honoring wilderness, we honor beauty. Beauty is not peripheral but at the core of what sustains us.

The world is not a safe place. Perhaps it never has been, but it is still a beautiful place. This is the disorienting truth of the Colorado Plateau: We stand on the edge of a great erosion landscape. The silence before us translates into deep time. We look not simply toward a linear horizon but a curved one where the planet becomes a globe spinning toward change.

Wolves howl in the bright light of the moon. Bison remain wild, not tamed. And on dark days, when everywhere we turn war is raging and violence around the world seems to be rising, a dozen trumpeter swans fly in formation over snow-covered peaks.

Awe is the moment when ego surrenders to wonder. This is our inheritance- the beauty before us. We cry. We cry out. There is nothing sentimental about facing the desert bare. It is a terrifying beauty.

Had she always been so insulated from human contact, like a bloom encased in frost?

She'd loved their scent--not sweet and cloying like other flowers, but pungent. Assertive. She'd loved the way they sprang up wild in vacant lots and roadsides, reminders that true beauty is spontaneous and irrepressible.