Letters on Beauty V
Letter V — Beauty Must Be Practiced, or It Vanishes
✍️ From Verdiel to Rebeca
Dated: July 24, 2025 💌
Rebeca,
Before we call something beautiful…
we must first learn how to see.
And that kind of seeing is not instinctual — it’s trained.
Like the eye of the violinist who knows a bow out of tune just by watching it move.
Or the gardener who notices the soil has turned too acidic by the way the leaves lean.
Or a mother who senses her child’s sorrow before a word is spoken.
We are not born with that seeing.
We must practice it.
This is the part no one wants to hear — because it requires humility.
It means admitting that maybe, just maybe, our preferences have been distorted.
That maybe what we “like” isn’t what’s true… but what we’ve been taught to consume.
Beauty is not passive.
It’s a discipline. A turning of the gaze.
A remembering of what coherence feels like.
So how do we practice beauty?
We begin in silence.
Not the silence of neglect, but of intention.
The silence that allows space for form to emerge.
We study. We tend. We limit. We refine.
We stop looking for beauty in whatever shouts loudest.
And we begin listening for what whispers with integrity.
You once told me that beauty requires coherence.
I believe you were right.
And that means: we cannot separate how we see beauty from how we live truth.
The two walk hand in hand — or not at all.
Let me stop here, before I say too much all at once.
The next letter is yours.
Tell me — what does it look like, for you, to practice beauty?
With a heart still listening,
Verdiel
💌 All yours, Rebeca.
No rush — just truth.
Would you Like to Read the Next Letter?
Letter VI — The Tightrope Above the Noise
🪻 “On Beauty — From Lavender Field”
You Will Also Enjoy:
Between flowers, distant cities, and passing seasons, “Go Easy” reflects on love, absence, survival, and the quiet sorrow of time that never stops turning.
This is a reflective poem about loving someone through changing seasons, unfinished conversations, and the fragile motion of life itself.
“Go Easy”—translated from Brazilian Portuguese “Leva a vida na brincadeira” — is what my grandmother used to tell me. And I dedicate this poem to her.