Interjections of wonder ...
... sometimes found on pavement
blessed is the person
who delights in seeing
the inner child in every one
and the magic in all creatures …
How do we become a person one might, once-upon-a-time, have called “blessed” - with or without religious connotations? Don’t I wish I knew. And yet, there is this… And then that… And then something else… It happens.
I’ve been sitting with the responsibility to wonder - meaning, to find and embrace awe. It’s easy to conjure an image of a child’s wonder - blowing the seeds from a dandelion, or laughing as they run from the wave curling itself up onto the beach. Children hold joy in its entirely - no mitigation - just a full, unfettered and wild embrace of life.
But where does that go? When do we become embarrassed by it? When do we learn to temper its impact? As I think of this great loss, my heart feels like it is splitting, lamenting the so much of my life that has been spent whole continents of time away from what was once a daily experience, the simple joy of discovery, sensation, colour texture, scent. It’s no wonder it is a hummingbird card that has me contemplating this, the tiny iridescent miracles seeming to float in the air, their wings made invisible by speed.
I am luckier than some for I am wrapped in a relationship with a man who points me toward wonder all the time, thank goodness, and who is delighted when I take something of a similar ilk to him. Without those interjections of wonder, I might live in my head full time, oblivious to so much beauty and joy. As might we all in today’s paved and data-driven world.
As children, we wondered at everything. And sometime, long before we were born and handed responsibility for setting social norms, being “grown up” meant not holding onto joy, letting go of the exquisite frisson of childish wonder. We grew up believing that being mature meant being a mature sort of serious. Or many of us did.
who can pause to notice
the delicate lustre of a lichen
and the undulations of the light
who dares to make hope
an axiom of being
and is strong enough
to to be changed by love
I’ve recently begun to practice reminding myself - or should that be re-hearting myself - to take the moment, or the many moments, needed to feel the wonder surrounding me. To be blown away by the infinitesimally small emergence of chance that has has me placed right here, right now, hearing two clocks chime at the same time - a small miracle in our clock-filled home - wrapped in an exquisitely beautiful thrifted wool shawl, hand-embroidered half a world away, listening to a former goalie sing his heart out through my computer and hauling my own through the tragedies of love and wonder that so amaze or undo us. I take a moment. Breathe it in. Feel the change in the room. Awe. How often does that happen?
Take that moment. Find it somewhere in your day. It’s there. Once you find it, hold it long enough to fill your eyes with tears.
Yes.
That’s right.
Keep going.
There it is: Wonder. Awe. As exquisite and fleeting as a hummingbird.
All poetry by Maria Popova.
This post is an offshoot of my A Whole Lot of Broken Substack. It’s part of a series inspired by the artistic and poetic work Maria Popova offers in An Almanac of Birds: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days. Each post includes a minimally edited version of the reflection I’ve written as a regular morning discipline in response to one of Popova’s beautiful cards.
Such a beautiful piece. I am looking at the clouds now. Thank you for reminding me to be intentional about wonder.