Life is beautiful.

Storms are beautiful. So is a face at eighty that has clearly been through something. Beauty and ease parted company a long time ago, which is what makes this bearable on a bad day.

The version that fails is the one demanding everything be pleasant first. Held more loosely it is closer to a bet: that even a difficult stretch contains something worth having looked at. Light on a wet road counts. So does the sound of someone laughing in the next room.