Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so why do we keep trying to define it?

An essay on beautiful things that are not that beautiful when you think about it, and of things that aren't considered beautiful, but are.

I am frustrated. The afternoon of searching has heralded no work (yet), and I am forced to retreat from the heat of my office to the kitchen table, where the door is open and the cooler breeze wafts through.

It carries the scent of Jasmine, heady and intoxicating, and the smell of the washing on the line. Together is a perfect blend of manufactured florals and the unmistakable perfume from the flowers blooming on the fence. It reminds me of my grandmother and the line-dried towels she would wrap me in at the beach. Soothing, even if they were coarser on my skin than the sand.

What’s more, the cool air lifts my spirits somewhat, and I’m reprieved of my bad mood for just enough time to consider the small beauty of the moment. It turns out something as small as a breeze can shift tight chestedness into a smile.

I think of how nice it is to be reminded of Nefyn beach and sand castles. Scampering over rockpools with my Dad to find limpets that promised to be big and juicy enough to entice the crabs from underneath their rocks. I used to be thrilled by the liquid that would spurt over my hands as I dug my thumbnail between the seal that kept the limpet in its shell. Now the scene feels gory, but remembered fondly. I fear I was braver as a child.

Braver to be and do ugly things, that is, like pick up rocks and bash off shells from rockpools. But bravery as a woman takes on a different meaning as we age and change.