It’s the night of October 25, 2024. I’m the only one home, and literally, alone on a mountain. The word “vanity” has been rolling around my mind the last few days, and I feel determined to understand why. The critic in me feels certain an ugly internal truth lies at the end of this curious exploration. Perhaps I’m a closeted vain girl. Surely, there’s something wrong with me. Again. Still.
I drive my 4Runner to the top of what we call the “hill,” but that’s a slight under exaggeration, as this rolling geographical peak sits roughly at 9500 feet. The sun is just starting to set, and I open the back hatch, wrapping myself in a blanket to prepare for the steep temperature drop-off I know is quickly forthcoming.
As the sun sinks closer to the horizon, I close my eyes and settle into just FEELING. The horizontal rays deliciously hit my face and exposed arms, but then suddenly seem to stop short. I ponder the sensation, then perceive my skin as a barrier that’s preventing the light from penetrating deeper.
A longing emerges. I want more. I ache to inhale the sunlight, imbibe it…become it. An inaudible voice whispers, “You must become a permeable membrane.”
Shedding my blanket, I expose my stomach and legs; I kick off my shoes, where they instantly disappear in the weeds. I force myself to stop envisioning my skin as a barrier and start embracing it for the living, breathing, porous organ that it is. With a slow inhale, I invite the light to penetrate my skin, to weave its way through tissue, muscle, and fat—all the way into my organs, my bones, my marrow.
After several minutes, I feel warm to my core. Penetrated. Wholly satiated.
I have become a permeable membrane.
*
One by one, then cluster by cluster, stars emerge in the blackening night sky, until at last, I am enshrouded—no longer in sunlight—but in darkness.
In our dark sky community, where the black is blacker than anywhere I’ve ever been, I swear I can perceive arched gridlines both holding back the heavens and stretching them earthward like the poles of a canvas tent. While the magnitude of stars seems chaotic, these gridlines add order; I behold the sky as a giant, celestial graph, and the stars as intentionally plotted points amongst intersecting axes.
Whereas stars in the city appear as mere, faintly glowing pinpricks, here, they are as thronging portals, pointing the way into galaxies upon more galaxies. Feeling small in the best possible way, I study the stars—the way they sporadically “twinkle.” By Webster’s definition, the way they “shine with flickering or fluctuating light.” In contrast, several airplanes and satellites traverse the night sky. Their manmade lights are different; they’re flashy, strong, unwavering, rhythmic, and purposeful.
A curious thought enters my mind: this is the difference between vanity and beauty.
*
Wonder-filled and chilled to the bone, I start up my car and head homeward. Entering the back door, our house feels less dark than normal, compared to my starlit evening on the hill.
I fumble to flip on the light switch, only to feel grossly and instantly overwhelmed by the unnatural flooding of artificial light. I quickly toggle off the switch, opting instead to light a few candles.
This is the difference between vanity and beauty.
Having skipped dinner, I pop a frozen pizza into the oven. It comes out looking perfectly square, perfectly plastic, perfectly unappetizing. I quarter it with a rolling cutter as if it were a real pizza, then take a bite; nothing about Totino’s tastes right.
Pushing it aside, I cut off one face of an apple, then impulsively stop. A thought is forming. I pensively pick up the fallen slice with my thumb and forefinger and stare at it—such a clean, straight line. I bite off a neat chunk, chew an appropriate number of times, and then swallow. Dabbing my lips on a napkin, I feel aptly proper, civilized, and polite.
Grabbing the remaining un-severed apple, I plop down in a swivel chair that sits in our jutting three-sided bay window, and resume star gazing by candlelight. Now, I sink my teeth into the whole apple—and not just my front ones. I fit the apple as far into my mouth as I can and chomp down “con mucho gusto.” Juice dribbles down my chin, and I wipe it off with the back of my sleeve. Impulsively, I begin slurping as I continue chomping, so that no more precious juice escapes, and then pull the apple away from my mouth to study it. How long has it been, I wonder, since I’ve eaten an apple this way? Now, fully giving myself to the act, I continue chomping and slurping with fervor. I feel delightfully barbaric as the apple disappears one uneven bite at a time.
This is the difference between vanity and beauty.
The apple reduced to its core, my hunger, I realize, is still present. Yet it’s not a physical hunger; it’s a hunger for more—more raw earthiness, more guttural LIFE. Rising from my chair, I cut up a red pepper, peel off a slice of cheese, then drench everything abundantly in red wine vinegar and olive oil. I consume every last morsel in the most unladylike fashion, even licking the plate clean when I’m done.
Then, I pick up my pen and begin journaling:
Olive oil and vinegar sopped up with provolone cheese, accompanied by the crunch of red peppers. Soaking my fingers in oil and savoring licking them off like a child. No shame. No greed. No loss of femininity. Just sensuality—NOT sexuality—all senses alive.
A star-filled sky. A repulsion for manmade light. Fire. Apples from the earth. Olive oil—the lubricant of life. Enough. Total satiety. Perfect imperfection.
God’s lights (fire and stars) twinkle and flicker erratically, imperfectly, and humbly, while man’s lights (planes, satellites, and lightbulbs) flare boldly, rhythmically, almost mathematically—while ostentatiously demanding attention.
Now I understand something more about vanity. Vanity acts in misalignment, or discord, with nature. It seeks flawlessness, attention, and precision; it’s stiff, rigid, greedy, predictable, and plastic. Whereas true beauty—God’s beauty—understands the concept of “enough.” It’s perfectly ordered without being demandingly orderLY, chaotic in a gorgeously organized fashion. Beauty is humble, of the earth (humus), natural, flickering, unpredictable, and yet wildly dependable. Vanity demands attention for self’s sake, whereas beauty contentedly disappears in the larger scheme.
Vanity is cutting an apple in perfect, precise lines, eating it with two delicate fingers, then dabbing any leftover juice with a napkin. Beauty is planting both lips firmly on apple skin, then chomping down “con mucho gusto,” tearing apple flesh from apple core, slurping out the juice, wiping a messy chin with a clean sleeve, and slowly relishing licking off each and every finger afterward.
Vanity is a guarded, perfected, performed appearance. Beauty is a gloriously messy, embodied experience.
*
Almost exactly one year later—September 7, 2025, to be precise—I have a dream. In it, we are moving into a new house. This dream does not surprise me, because, if my husband’s business sells, we are planning on remodeling our kitchen—something we had planned on doing two years ago before we encountered a crisis with Grayson (written about elsewhere), and had to send him—and our remodeling budget—to a residential program in Utah. As I write, my kitchen counter is littered with flooring, cabinet, quartzite, and paint samples, and my brain has been a flurry of measurements, colors, and kitchen appliances; so again, this dream does not surprise me.
Anyway, in this dream, our realtor/designer is giving us a tour of our new home. It’s MASSIVE and gaudy; apparently, everything is “trending” and “top of the line.” We must enter through a gated, underground concrete garage, the realtor/designer explains, which we share with numerous other homeowners. Leading us into the living room, he highlights our hideous “designer” blue vinyl sofa, covered in bright red painted cherries. Our bedroom, he points out, is located up three flights of stairs from the main part of the house. Three of our children have rooms in the basement, so far away that they could not hear us if we yelled for them. Another child is in a different wing of the house; I lift my eyes to behold him through his window, which appears more like the turret of a stone castle. Fortunately, Grayson is at least on the same side of the house as our bedroom, so I take comfort in knowing he’s closer. The whole house is entirely horrendous.
In my dream, I feel horribly panicked and trapped, as I had zero say in the selection of the house or its design. The whole process, and the house, feel terribly cold, sterile, and out of control.
And then I awoke.
Lingering in bed, I decide surely the dream is a result of my guilt over the amount of money this remodel will require. Perhaps it’s a sign I’m being greedy, overly materialistic…spoiled. It’s probably additionally reflective of our new “empty-nester” status, as we recently moved our youngest child to Boston for college.
I dread rising from bed, walking out into our house, and having my fears confirmed: our house, in truth and reality, is the house of my dreams—gaudy, massive, cold, and empty.
Yet, when I plod my sluggish feet toward the kitchen, I am delightfully surprised to be met with a warm blast. I love our house. Despite its size, it feels cozy. The kitchen (for once) is orderly and clean. In the early dawn, deer are already feeding outside of our bay window, peacefully co-mingling with the wild turkeys and domesticated chickens.
Our house, in reality, feels nothing like my dream.
I make myself a cup of coffee, then head to my downstairs office to ponder my dream.
Suddenly and strangely, my night spent on the hill nearly one year ago pops into my mind. Following an invisible thread, I open last year’s journal in an effort to recall that night.
Words in my own handwriting leap off the page and accost me, although I don’t remember writing them:
Now I understand why the remodel didn’t work out. It has to do with the way Orthodox Churches are built using earthy materials—wood, stone, iron, and steel—in order to “ground” it. These materials are tangible ways of drawing Heaven close to earth, of building something that will last; they are ways of uniting Heaven and Earth through solid matter. When we do remodel the house, I must utilize the same natural elements, humble elements (humus—of the earth). I must create a “church” of my home.
This is the difference between vanity and beauty.
Returning to the present, I again consider my dream, and a message floats into my brain: a wrongly built house divides people, but the right one brings them together.
Smiling, I consider the samples lying upstairs on my counter: red oak flooring, a natural stone countertop, alder cabinetry…all elements of the earth. Humus. Humility.
A vision appears in my mind. This remodel, if God so allows, will be deeply infused with love. It will be thoughtfully built for our children, their future spouses, and our future grandchildren. It will be intentionally created for raucous gatherings, tears shed over late-night snacks, and so that hurting people might feel welcomed and accepted for perhaps the first time. Each and every element of this remodel will be filled with prayers that all who enter might feel loved. Although mere cabinets and countertops, they will also be the invisible axes of a night sky—stretching the canvas of the heavens earthward so that God Himself might stoop low.
This. This is the difference between vanity and beauty.
*
And so, my year from last October through today, comes full circle. From my experience of becoming a permeable membrane, I realize that vanity is the equivalent of sealed skin. It is a barrier that blocks us off from the outside world. It seeks to externally compensate for all that is lacking inside.
Beauty, true beauty, is porous. It allows for a constant and simultaneous osmotic infiltration and release. If there is an internal lack, a surplus of external beauty can and will infuse a wounded soul…if only we allow ourselves to become permeable. In times of internal plentitude, love will flow generously outward, refusing to grow resentful, even when love is not returned. In true beauty, there is a continual ebb and flow, a give and take, an inhale and an exhale…a steady becoming and releasing.
Becoming beautiful (beauty-full, beauty-filled, full of beauty) mandates that we become porous. We cannot become full of anything (love, grace, forgiveness, charity, etc…) unless we become open ports for entry.
Granted, it is undoubtedly safer to remain armored, sealed, and self-protective; doing so ensures control over our input and output. We can prevent future hurt, dictate who and what we allow into and out of our hearts.
But, is this not a form of vanity, in the sense that it is rigid, controlled, and manufactured—an unnatural striving and state of being?
As for myself, I would rather bear my soul to the sun and invite it to traverse my recesses—even the ones that hurt. I would rather chomp and slurp my way toward a fully embodied life with juice dribbling barbarically down my chin. I would rather lick the marrow of life from calloused fingers. And I would rather experience both love and hurt rather than live alone and afraid in a self-protected, isolated vault.
Today, I choose yet again to become a permeable membrane.
This is the difference between vanity and beauty.
Vanity is a guarded, perfected, performed appearance. Beauty is an gloriously messy, embodied experience.
