Hey good people,

I've been wanting to toss this out there for quite some time. Unfortunately, it's so obscure, so subtle, that I've been having trouble trying to figure some way to phrase it coherently; I've failed.

So rather than toss it out completely, I thought I'd pose it here in an imperfect form and just hope that someone picks up the idea for agreement, disagreement or discussion in general. Ok, here I go.[INDENT]For many things in our physical world, there exists an ineffable quality of "use" or Utility. There stands a maple tree, very beautiful in its colors (with its graceful limbs starting to come bare and show themselves). My wife and I walk by; say "ah, nice" and press on. Walking on some more, we come upon another maple tree (yes, they're all over the place here) that's virtually identical except for one difference; this one has a tree house in it.

Well, not precisely a tree-house, but a conglomeration of boards, ropes (ah!, not smart!) a precariously-balance box and a hand-made cardboard sign that says "keep out!", written in a child's hand. This one is beautiful; a child played there, probably more than one or two. It's been 'used', it's been worked, played on and joy has been taken from and with the tree. In no time, the boards will fall, the sign will blow away and time will march on.
[/INDENT]But the second one is more 'beautiful' to me. I know why, but it's hard to flesh out. Ok, more examples:

• The chair on someone's porch that's for-show, never getting sat on just doesn't look very nice.
  
• A soccer ball, with scuffs and pits from all it's having been kicked around
  
• The mature woman who, having borne children, is shaped just a bit differently now
  
• The difference between the stiff, new and smelly leather jacket you just got, and the old one hanging in your closet; worn and soft.
  
• The scars on a friend's arm, tell-tale signs of something long passed.
  
• A book, dog-eared with notes in the margins and spilt coffee on the corner; signs of many a good adventure, cuddled-up reading on the sofa.
  

In an age where freshness, newness, shrink-wrap and clear-skin are so much held in the media's highest esteem, I find that - as I grow older - I'm finding actual "beauty" in the imperfect, that which by the passage of time or the fulfillment of purpose is now asymmetric and no longer pristine.

Does this make any sense? Anyone have any thoughts or feelings on this?