Every branch and every twig in town is sheathed in ice. Sunshine is caught in a million tiny prisms and scattered into glittering fragments. The spectacle is a dazzling reminder of last January’s ice storm, when trees and power lines were overdosed with such beauty. Life in Maine was no picnic for most of us a year ago.

When was it—in the course of all time—that hardship married beauty. The two seem inseparable. Maine’s craggy, magnificent coast is the source of shipwreck and peril. The pristine tranquility of the woods is lonely, desolate, and dangerous. The gleam of winter on the landscape calls up real stories of loss and deprivation.

Maine does not have an exclusive on the beauty-and-hardship paradox, but we do experience extremes. We do not have an exclusive, even, on the extremes. Think of the majestic Alps, the lush Tropics, the stirring power of storms, the dash of surf, the thrilling turbulence of many natural phenomena. These do not offer safety and comfort—they give us danger, fear, and beauty.

Maine people who choose to work the extremes—in fishing, logging, or farming, for instance—are choosing a hard way to make a living, but it is a living with spirit and character.

Often it is because of the beauty that we put up with the hardships; sometimes it is because of the hardship that we relish the beauty.

Most of us find a kind of half-way point between the safe life and the exciting life—hedging our bets both ways. But those who accept all life—with its challenges, risks, hardships, and consequences—those are the beautiful people.