The Alps overwhelm the senses. Their legendary 1599 peaks stretch in a 750 mile-long arc that, if squished together, would fill up Kansas. Even when gazing at their snowcapped tips, the Alps cannot be grasped by the eyes or the mind.

The Alps beguiled the 19th-century Romantics who raced to paint them, cast them into poetry, and set them as a characters in novels. But their forefathers perceived these mountains as a forcefield of danger, rightly fearing human factors like bandits along the passes, rockslides and avalanches, and the murky power of dragons, gremlins, witches, and demons who surely lived within their icy shadows.

Their vision, though, doesn’t appear in the brochures. Rather, it is the 19th-century vision we see in postcards and travel guides. And once here, travelers find that those pictures do not exaggerate the beauty of this part of the world.

In a few days I will finish my present Smithsonian Journey’s tour, aptly called “Treasures of the Swiss Alps.” With stays in places like Lucerne, Zermatt, Lugano, Innsbruck, and Salzburg, we’ve had everything from sun-drenched cruising on the villa-dotted Lake Maggiore (southwest Italianate corner of Switzerland) to blasts of new snow above Innsbruck. Still, despite my clicking 500 pictures trying to capture such magnificence, a different kind of beautiful site—one covering just a few feet—equally delights my eye.

Europeans have a deeply rooted ability to create beauty in small things. They do this with a confidence, in fact a virtuosity, hard to describe. These pictures give some idea of what I mean. Such small spots of beauty continuously surprise me, even though I have come to expect them: picturesque window sills and doorways, miniature figures gracing stairways and stoops, and random objects like bicycles and barrels decorated in styles ranging from cute to lavish, odd to elegant. And then, those European flowers simply cascading from every conceivable spot. Oh my, those flowers!

My phone is filled with pictures of spots where lovely objects are popped stylishly into old shoes, colorful objects peek out from shutters, and charming things hang in utterly incongruous ways. I recently experienced an elaborate dinner on the Rhine where bunches of grapes and tomatoes hung from silver candelabras, raw potatoes and turnips were raised up triumphantly upon a tripod of silver forks, and bunches of spring onions and celery stood like sentries. Taken individually, not every inch was beautiful. But the overall effect of these table decorations, in the glow of candlelight, was marvelous!

None of this beauty happens by itself. It requires work to envision, plant, and assemble, plus diligence to maintain. Each new generation of residents has to commit to embracing these traditions and prioritize the presence of beauty in daily life.

The thing is, I cannot take the Alps home with me. But I can take home thimblefuls of inspiration from these beautiful spots. To put a fine point on it, all that’s needed is a desire to try and the ideas will surely follow.

Children do this kind of thing without prompting. An experience I had last fall emphasizes this. I’d been given an opportunity to teach art history to a class of second-graders. My goal was to instill “knowledge” (familiarity) coupled with hands-on experiences. The class had done well with our initial ventures into the genres of art, especially portraiture (including self-portraits—that was fun!). Landscape study led the children to draw their own scenes, grasping nicely the concepts of vanishing point and perspective. But what should I do with that venerable genre, the still life?

After all, how exciting can a static still life be to a second-grader (unless it has dead rabbits or bleeding grouse)? But then a wacky idea occurred to me. I showed up with boxes of seasonal objects: small pumpkins, gourds, and Indian corn, random sticks, some with fall leaves still attached, nuts, rocks, swatches of fabrics, dried flowers, and lots of fruits like apples, grapes, plums, and pears. Next to these, I piled decorative items from my house: a small wooden tray, a woven-grass bowl, ceramic vases and urns, brass candlesticks, porcelain knick-knacks, and whatever else fell out of my cabinets.

Once in the classroom, I sorted things out as best I could. “Grab a couple of things from each pile,” I told them. “Work in teams of two or three” (the teacher helped me organize these), “and put together a still life!”

And they did. Chaos reigned at first, but things settled, and within about 20 minutes, multiple desks were topped by the loveliest designs you can imagine. The kids did have some models to use, from Renaissance masterworks to Cezanne’s Apples. Still, primarily they carved their own paths, using what they liked and what worked.

At the half-hour point, they stood back to admire each other’s work. Then, I asked them to draw what they’d created. This task was less successful (we’re talking second graders here) although they tried ardently to capture their designs on paper, and some really managed it. Their dear teacher made sure each arrangement was photographed for posterity, along with the students who had assembled it.

They were pleased. I was pleased. Best of all, several told me they were going to try to create another still life at home. With Thanksgiving approaching, a few even envisioned decking their holiday tables with their own creations.

Children respond to beauty instantly and instinctively. They may have chaos in their closets and rooms and shoes lying hither and yon, caked with mud. But they have an innate sense of beauty. Their automatic eye for balance, color, and form, albeit adventurous, might elude us, tasked as we are with “more important” considerations. Perhaps we adults need to emulate their spirit of whimsy and confidence. They trust their instincts for beauty. Why should not we trust, or at least explore, ours?