Wonder

Somewhere along life's journey, wonder quiets. What once filled our tiny bodies, consumed our minds, and drove our nonstop actions settles. I didn’t notice how quiet my wonder had gotten until I became a mother.

And now, I spend most of my time with a toddler in full wonder-consumption.

Along the way, I think my wonder got overridden by adulthood: schedules, bills, work, taking care of a house, and all the other things we don’t think of when we passionately plead for time to quicken so we can be adults.

I feel the tension as I want to take us to a park, but my son sees a squirrel down the street. Or I’m trying to carry groceries inside, but my son hears an airplane. Or it’s time to get ready for bed, but my son is in the middle of his make-believe game.

Sometimes, more often than I’d like, my adulthood priorities win, and I encourage my son to listen. But lately, I’ve been trying to deconstruct these barriers to my own wonder. It’s not easy. I’ve placed a lot of importance on my hierarchy of priorities, but slowly, I’m feeling my wonder shake the dust off, begin to stretch out, and work its way back up to the top influencer of my actions.

That’s a beautiful thing about wonder. It may be quiet, but it never goes away. And with a bit of prodding, you can regain the desire to stop and watch a rolly polly dwaddle along the sidewalk, bend down and feel the pedals on a flower blooming, close your eyes and listen to the birdsong, pause and find shapes in the clouds, pick up a rock and look for fossils, and so, so many other utterly spectacular things we often don’t even have awareness is happening right in front of us.