The ease with which beauty can be captured, if such a thing is possible, seems to me inversely related to the intimacy of knowledge and familiarity of that beauty.  Seeing something grand and for the first time allows for a kind of shocking awe that renders whatever medium it was captured on worthy of praise.  Even if it's not perfect, it's still beautiful.  But when the subject is far more subtle but far more important, that task becomes near impossible.

Taking my camera to my family's farm is an exercise in frustration and futility.  No amount of frames exposed or hours in lightroom can match what I see with my eyes and my heart when I look out over fields and roads that raised me.  Maybe a more skilled photographer could extract a worthy representation of what I see. Or maybe, like humanness, the complexity is too much to capture.  

And perhaps you might not find it beautiful at all, or any more so than any other patch swamp and gumbo where the Texas hill country gives way to the easy pull of the land toward water.  But it's there, you just might not see it yet.

Maybe I’ll never capture it.  But I’ll probably keep trying.  It's the least I can do.