Is the world still beautiful?

First - an explanation. The whole of this year, I have felt like a bad writer. I half write things and then stop because they sounds trite, moralising or just not-very-interesting. I have also noticed myself apologising for what I say, often. 

When I was in university, writing here was easy but writing in my diary was hard. Somehow the digital world seemed like a place of experimentation and the occasional update with no bonds of chronology or form. Whereas I felt guilty for leaving spaces in my diary - I would leave pages blank for the days I missed with the full intention to go back and fill them in but I never did because my memory would fade beyond the precision and exactitude I held myself to, in order to detail a day.

"I don't want to be someone who is particular about things," I told Jacob last night, which I what I told myself back in those days and wrote on a page in my diary, in a big black pen that spilled through the pages, "I will write anything in here and it doesn't have to be perfect".

So here comes a series of imperfect, half written blog posts in no particular order, but I feel that only in getting things out can things start afresh.

(written a while ago)

Yesterday the trees were shedding pollen. It fell like tropical snow, creating a light layer of specks on our window sill. I was lying on my back on the sofa, feeling the hard edge of the arm rest under my head. So many times I have thought that this is one of the world's least comfortable sofas, with pillows that slouch toward the center and hard, angular, wooden arm rests, but on that Sunday it was the perfect place to watch the golden pollen against the leaves. It was so beautiful; this world is so beautiful.

When I was younger, I went to a Bible study on a Wednesday night. We sat round in a living room and talked about the book of Ruth, and how it starts with a famine and ends with a harvest. One evening we were asked to share of one word to describe the world. After spending some time in thought we went around the room.

"Broken."

                            "Chaotic."

        "Sinful."

When it came to me I said the only word that had thrummed away in my head like a heartbeat: 

"Beautiful."

I believe it still, but last week I felt at moments a sense of dread at the way the world is, the way that animals and ecosystems and rivers have been destroyed to make room for a manmade picture of progress. I'd be walking around and suddenly think something like: "I don't think I'll ever have grandchildren" and a big wave of sadness would settle. 

On Sunday we went to church, and sang these words: "Your plans are still to prosper, you have not forgotten us. You're with us in the fire and the flood. You're faithful forever, perfect in love. You are sovereign over us." That was comforting. 

I painted the view outside my window the week before when Jacob was away. It began as a silly thing - on children's drawing block paper and using paints I'd found discarded at a dustbin - just a way to be creative with no accountability at the end of it. I made leaves purple and blue underneath their green, and tried small dotting strokes and long swishy ones. Then I got invested, and stayed up painting till 10pm to recreate the beauty I have all around me every day.