On The Power of Beauty

How do you make a poor man rich? You make him wonder.

Marianna Saver
Big Self

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Photo by Xuan Nguyen on Unsplash

I am writing this from my bunker room in the outskirts of London. Bunker room because I hardly ever have to leave it, now that we live in the aftermath of COVID-19, the era of smart remote working. An umpteenth zoom meeting is scheduled for this evening. A facetime call with a friend will happen sometime soon. A decaf oat latte is fuming by my side. I know it will grow cold before the end of this paragraph, as it usually does.

My window displays the same scene every day. Except there’s something different, something new each day. This morning sky offers the full spectrum of blue-violet hues. Yesterday it was grey with clouds. The brown-green leaves of the loquat tree in our garden now blaze in the golden light. The house across the street changes in appearance as the people that live in it change their routines, the curtains now half-open, now fully draped behind the glass doors.

When in fifth grade I told my mother I wanted to be a poet, she smiled, plunged my head into her chest, and said, in typical motherly fashion: “I am happy if you are happy, whatever that means.” Then, fixing a brief curl behind my ear, she added: “Perhaps we can look into journalism schools.”

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Marianna Saver
Big Self

I write to understand what I don’t know. I also send monthly love notes: bit.ly/themorningair