Ephemeralness as a quality of beauty
As the crowd was trampling through the forest at the music festival, there was a scene I saw under our feet.
It was broken branches, a pine cone, pine needles—all clustered together, arranged just so, as a portrait, as a sculpture, as a natural work of art.
I wish I could have taken a step back, crossed my arms, and considered the scene longer. With my chin on my chest, leaning my head to the side, I could have walked slowly in a circle around it to see all the angles.
But it was on the forest floor, being trampled underneath so many steps of the crowd pushing forward to get through a narrow passing between two trees.
And it occurs to me now that it was special for that very reason, that even if I wanted to stop and consider it—crouch down, cross my arms, look at it—I couldn't have. The extended period of appreciation was forbidden me because the crowd was moving too fast. I couldn't stop. I had only that quick glance.
So it was beautiful for two reasons. First, it was beautiful in the plain sense, like any other sight that appeals pleasantly to the eyes. Second, it was beautiful because it was forbidden. It was rare. It was a moment that passed. I couldn't have stopped and considered it because the crowd, like the march of time, was pushing me along.