As Bob Marley said, "Who feels it knows it Lord." In the presence of real beauty, words, logic, reaoning, and rationale are rendered moot. True beauty is the reflection of God. Perhaps more than a mere reflection. Perhaps it is the experience of God Himself. Whether beauty is the essence or the energy of God is for theologians to decide. But I imagine that when one truly experiences beauty, theological distinctions are of little importance.
I would offer this humble rhetorical question: Is there anything truly beautiful that is not born of struggle?
I recently read these words from Dorothy Day, one of my spiritual heroes. She mentions Dostoevsky's quote, and I think her words give a glimpse into their meaning:
In 1924 I started a "live-in" relationship with Forster Batterham, an atheist and an anarchist. He believed in nothing except personal freedom to do as you please. We took up residence in a beach bungalow on Staten Island, New York. We foreshadowed the hippies of the sixties and lived a carefree lifestyle living off the land and sea — gardening, fishing and claming. I thought that we would be contributing to the misery of the world if we failed to rejoice in the sun, the moon, and the stars, in the rivers which surrounded the island on which we lived and in the cool breezes of the bay. Like Dostoevsky, I began to believe that the world would be saved by beauty. It was this beautiful, natural world that slowly led me back to God. "How can there be no God," I asked Forster, "when there are all these beautiful things?"
However, I felt that my home was not a home without a child. For a long time I had thought that I could not have a child. No matter how much one is loved or one loves, that love is lonely without a child. It is incomplete. Soon I became pregnant again. I saw this as a miracle from God because I thought that He had left me barren after the abortion. I wrote in a letter to a friend, “I always rather expected an ugly grotesque thing which only I could love; expecting perhaps to see my sins in the child.”
On the contrary, I gave birth to a beautiful daughter, Tamar Teresa, on March 4, 1926. I remembered that the labor pains swept over me like waves in the beautiful rhythm of the sea. When I became bored and impatient with the steady restlessness of those waves of pain, I thought of all the other and more futile kinds of pain I would rather not have had. Toothaches, earaches, and broken arms. I had had them all. And this was a much more satisfactory and accomplishing pain, I comforted myself.