Moments of Wonder

Life is so startling that it leaves little time for anything else.

Emily Dickenson

My three-year-old Bernie Doodle, Bruno, has a morning routine that is the same everyday. I get up and let him out to relieve himself, and as soon as he comes back into the house he runs down the hall to the toy basket and begins the thoughtful process of selecting the toy that will be his favorite one for the day. I do not know how he makes this decision, but it clearly is an intentional process, for he studies the many stuffed toys in the basket, sometimes picking up one and dropping it. At other times he digs into the bottom of the basket to extract one that has caught his attention. Then suddenly he will reach for the one, tossing his head back with utter delight, and then will typically run down the hall with the toy in his mouth, obviously completely satisfied with his choice and the new day.

I love watching him carry out this ritual every morning, and I love how it has created such a feeling of delight in me, how wonderful it is to start the day with this careful selection process and how much I love that moment when the perfect toy is in his grasp, and the day is turning out to be just what it should be. . .filled with wonder.

What I love most about this moment is how ordinary it is. It is a basket filled with ragged, well loved toys, many of which no longer have their squeakers intact or have ears chewed off, but he does not seem to mind. The wonder is in the moment. It is right here in my living room, and is no more than a basket full of dog toys.

My grandson took that photo above just a few days after my husband died last fall. I was grasping for anything, a toy perhaps, that would lift my spirits and give me some relief from the overwhelming grief for just a moment or two. And there it was, the Northern Lights. They are hardly ordinary, but what mattered is that they were viewed in the sky from my front porch. I wanted to grasp the scene the way Bruno grabs his toy, hanging onto it, tossing my head back in delight.

But such moments are ephemeral, and the grief returned, as I knew it would. Since making the decision not to backpack anymore I have of course experienced another loss, grieving something that has always been central to who I am and how I live in the world.

I have been seeking those moments of wonder, not in the sky or from a meadow strewn with wildflowers, but in the ordinary gifts that I find in my life when I simply pay attention. I do not have to go searching for it. The way the light catches the stained glass in the afternoon as the sun sinks lower in the sky. The bright flowering of the Christmas cactus plants: soft pink, peach, magenta. And Bruno tossing his squeaky toy into the air, pouncing on it as if he were catching a squirrel.

This is what the natural world teaches us, whether it is the world viewed from a mountain pass or the vista of the Northern Lights from my front porch or even a happy dog playing with a toy. It is about wonder. . .and it can be found standing on the front porch.