Mom always sings a song like a lullaby.

And I was a shy little girl, always hiding behind her momma's back.

I'm that type of kid who has no guts in front of strangers, that meek little child that would freeze up or stare at you with deadpan eyes but wouldn't say any word.

But also the same type of kid who would go find and collect big earthworms and big snails then put some salt on them and watch them react to it—when left alone, which was my everyday routine.

Mom taught me how to sing,

Words by words

Gentle and warm

Reverberating an entire love song.

I followed suit,

Broken words

Whimsical notes

High pitched tiny voice

Exuding youthful innocence.

'It's the time again

for tender affection

And I'm together with you

While strolling around in every place

In full moon

With the wind carrying coldness

I'll hold you in my arms

For the whole night long'

That was the first song I tried singing without actually hearing the very song in my 6 years of existence.

Only trusting my mom's guidance,

I sang in front of my relatives,

Karaoke in the background.

My song of choice surprised her,

With trembling little voice I had,

I sang in broken words and stuttered melody.

I couldn't completely sing it with background accompaniments as I was used to hearing it in acapella.

Mom then tried joining me,

And we became a unique, once in a century duo.

That was the first time I ever tried singing.

It was my mom's lullaby to us,

Our family's theme song,

And of course, the first song I ever learned by ear.

Humanity can live without science, it can live without bread, but it cannot live without beauty. Without beauty, there would be nothing left to do in this life.

Having been absent from Prose for some time, I'm grateful on returning to see that EstherFlowers1 is still pushing the agenda. Yet again, he or she has asked a good question. By getting us to unpack the meaning of something that matters to me, I find this challenge also speaks to what I believe about beauty.

Where I live, there was recently a car show featuring restored deuce coupes. Since this was held on the West Coast, it was no surprise that a letter duly appeared in our local paper dismissing these cars as gas-guzzling dinosaurs, and their owners as ignorant rednecks. Perhaps this person finds no joy in history being restored, but before we shrug and move on, let's consider the joy this person disparaged.

Is there not joy in displaying a skill, completing a project, and seeing a job well done. Aren't all of you writers? You must have a reason for that.

Isn't there fun in going to shows and hanging around with other like-minded people? And aren't these cars still objects of beauty, at least to some there. I get this isn't my interest, so I can't imagine the kick that people will get from pursuing this hobby, but must still get them up in the morning, just like Dostoevsky said.

But here we're in deeper waters, as he well knows. Somewhere in our minds exists a suspicion about the absolutes of perfect goodness, truth and beauty, the home perhaps of God and heaven. In English, peace means only the absence of war. The Jewish word shalom has a much richer meaning, superbly expressed by Wikipedia.

The webbing together of God, humans, and all creation in justice, fulfillment, and delight is what the Hebrew prophets call shalom. Far more than mere peace of mind or a cease-fire between enemies, shalom means universal flourishing, wholeness and delight – a rich state of affairs in which natural needs are satisfied and natural gifts fruitfully employed, a state of affairs that inspires joyful wonder as its Creator and Savior opens doors and welcomes the creatures in whom he delights. Shalom, in other words, is the way things ought to be.

So what delights each of you? Is it perhaps the Spirit of Christmas, with headlights on snow when you safely come home? Is it perhaps the music of Bach, or the eyes of Botticelli's Venus? Do you get in the zone when writing? Does it sometimes start to rock, beginning in you a dialogue that you no longer control? This much from Lewis.

If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.

If there is a God-shaped hole inside us, will beauty speak to that?

I’m dying with the cowards

I’m dying with the heroes

and rapists

I’m dying with the barflies

and the sinners

I’m dying with you

we’re dying together

I’m dying with my dog

I’m dying with all the actors

and playwrights

I’m dying with the guitarists

and the painters

I’m dying with your people

my people

I’m dying with the cities and towns and countries

and skies

I’m dying with the warthog

and the Siamese fighting fish

I’m dying with the rivers and mountains

and music

I’m dying with everything natural

like I should

I’m dying with the flower, the pastry chef, the old men behind

the counters

I’m dying with millionaires and welfare getters

I’m dying with the children

and parks and playgrounds

I’m dying with famed athletes

I’m dying with animated voices from cartoons

I’m dying with designers and congress

I’m dying with science

and religion

I’m dying,

with

and without you.