Finding Beauty in Forgotten Places
Perceiving every place as a temple is a life-changing skill.
My most beautiful memories take place around a worn-out formica countertop holding up a greasy steel box of light-bulb-warmed fried chicken, flickering fluorescent lighting over cans of beer on ice, or a nighttime drive past the distant industrial flames of “Cancer Alley” while listening to the wistful indie music I came of age to.
To be fair, that’s probably because my family owned a gas station in small-town Louisiana.
In the early years, my parents worked hard to keep it afloat, stocking the shelves and counting all the money late into the night. They couldn’t leave us alone at home, so my siblings and I slept in the back room on floor mats.
These were the best times of our lives.
On its surface, it was an unholy, forgotten place of greed (Louisiana Lottery), lust (“performance” pills), and gluttony (fried chicken and Whatchamacallits). But it was our little temple. The beauty we felt was not in the environment — it was woven into the million little moments together as a family.
