Originally posted on Palace Ancestors February 9, 2023
The other day I was at a cafe with my friend when we started talking about wonder. Not in the sense of questioning—though we definitely do that as well, and in abundance, too—but in the way a child finds awe in the little things: a type of butterfly they’ve never seen before, or the whistle of a train as it goes through the centre of town. To a child, everything is this bright, glittering thing capable of cracking open their world and letting the light in.
“I find wonder in everyday things, often finding myself staring at a particular cloud formation, or the whorl of a flower’s petals, or the sheen on the back of a hummingbird as it hovers briefly in the backyard.”
I’m no stranger to this. I find wonder in everyday things, often finding myself staring at a particular cloud formation, or the whorl of a flower’s petals, or the sheen on the back of a hummingbird as it hovers briefly in the backyard. I can’t pass a dog in the street without gasping and wishing it a good day. It’s as though I continually see the world with fresh eyes, even if I’ve experienced something countless times before.
It’s not always like this; sometimes I have to consciously convince myself to see the world this way, but other times it comes naturally, as though a morning revives in me something that has been lost.
On the days it doesn’t come easy, it comes down to being consciously present in the moment. I’m definitely guilty of rushing through the day, not tasting my coffee in the morning or noticing the texture of the sweater I pull on in a rush, but then there are countless times I tune in to the small, mundane things as well. I’m the kind of person who pauses in front of a house to admire the colour of the siding and stops to pet every cat they find, and when given the chance, I’d take an hour to pick a bucket of blueberries, rather than buy them at the store.
“I don’t want to slip through the days, not feeling or hearing or seeing everything around me.”
I want the life I live to be intentional, but more than that, I want to be in it; I want it to be my life. I don’t want to slip through the days, not feeling or hearing or seeing everything around me. I don’t want to live a life that someone else wants for me, and more importantly, I don’t want the little things to go unnoticed. I want to touch every surface I pass and taste the sweet, crisp apples and go to the woods, take my shoes off and stand in the stream, even in winter. I want to feel everything fully and really be in it, be in this moment.
I have an idea of where this comes from, but I can’t tell you without outing an entire past I’m not sure I want to share online. But what I can say is I’ve taken life for granted in the past and I’ve held it stupidly by a thread, letting it dangle over a precipice with it hazardously close to slipping out of reach. When I look back now, I recognize where this came from and why I was doing it. I don’t think it was on purpose—it was a response to a response.
But I’m glad I’m firmly back on solid ground and able to touch the soft parts of life. I’m glad I’m able to notice, and wonder, and feel everything there is to feel.
“You can drive an hour out of town and sit at the base of a cedar tree older than you’ll ever live.”
And that’s just the thing: there are so many amazing things to experience in this life. You can sit in the grass and listen to bees buzz and bump between lavender. You can drive an hour out of town and sit at the base of a cedar tree older than you’ll ever live. If you time it right, you can make it to the river in time to see salmon rushing upstream for spawning season. Hell, you can lie in the middle of your kitchen floor with your favourite music playing, a bowl of ice cream balanced on your chest.
As I write this, a train horn thunders from downtown. It happens every night at 8 p.m. and midnight, and any time I’m awake to hear it, I pause what I’m doing and just listen. I know the area, have lived here my whole life, and so it’s easy to picture the train rolling through, its headlamp cutting the fog. There will be no cars on the road as it snakes through the buildings with no one to see, then along the short stretch of forest before coming to a stop on the edge of town.
Something I always stop to tell myself: this is your life you’re living right now. It’s not going to start at some nebulous point down the line, when you’ve finished this or that, or while you wait for something to start. It’s happening now, as you sit on your couch, as you walk under the stars, as you turn down the sheet for the night.
Remember that: this moment, here. This is it.
P.S. what bright, glittering thing have you noticed recently?
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