I almost lost something valuable between the train tracks and my best friend’s house. It was a spring afternoon in my fifteenth year. For a second, everything went a dull gray, and I was certain I knew too much. As the weight of repetition settled on my shoulders, I began to feel almost claustrophobic beneath a clear sky. The whole painful episode lasted maybe one minute.
The feeling was so unpleasant I decided I’d have to see the new in everything, no matter how familiar, lest I look back one day to find that the best of my life was the few years we call childhood. I had to hold onto wonder for dear life.
This must have been the shift between being a passive receiver of “the world” to seeking out details, forming fascination around any fragment of reality that was the slightest bit unusual or seemed a work of art: cloud animals; a particularly fiery sunset; the way smoke streamed and then danced up from the end of my Marlboro; feeling the curve of my cat’s back in the crook of my leg while we drifted off to sleep.
I’m forty-two, and though I’ve endured many rough periods, I’ve always been able to find a space of happiness through focusing on everyday beauty. Before having children I usually found the gems in nature, even in the middle of a city, or in music. Now, having witnessed two people grow from teeny tiny forms to independent beings who can make their own lunch and their own art, I most often find magic in the folks around me, friends and family of all ages, and sometimes I’m moved by the beauty of people I will never interact with: a mother laughing with her preschooler; an elderly couple out for a walk; a patient teacher tending a class full of kids on a field trip.
Truly, I’m grateful for the early decision to live, as much as possible, in wonder.
The feeling was so unpleasant I decided I’d have to see the new in everything, no matter how familiar, lest I look back one day to find that the best of my life was the few years we call childhood. I had to hold onto wonder for dear life.
This must have been the shift between being a passive receiver of “the world” to seeking out details, forming fascination around any fragment of reality that was the slightest bit unusual or seemed a work of art: cloud animals; a particularly fiery sunset; the way smoke streamed and then danced up from the end of my Marlboro; feeling the curve of my cat’s back in the crook of my leg while we drifted off to sleep.
I’m forty-two, and though I’ve endured many rough periods, I’ve always been able to find a space of happiness through focusing on everyday beauty. Before having children I usually found the gems in nature, even in the middle of a city, or in music. Now, having witnessed two people grow from teeny tiny forms to independent beings who can make their own lunch and their own art, I most often find magic in the folks around me, friends and family of all ages, and sometimes I’m moved by the beauty of people I will never interact with: a mother laughing with her preschooler; an elderly couple out for a walk; a patient teacher tending a class full of kids on a field trip.
Truly, I’m grateful for the early decision to live, as much as possible, in wonder.