A Few Bites of Wonder to See Us Through

Plus, a sneak peek at one of the poems from my upcoming collection, Take Me to the Thin Places

Photo by Strauss Western on Unsplash

“Wonder, the mental state of openness, questioning, curiosity, and embracing mystery, arises out of experiences of awe. In our studies, people who find more everyday awe show evidence of living with wonder. They are more open to new ideas. To what is unknown. To what language can’t describe. To the absurd. To seeking new knowledge. To experience itself, for example of sound, or color, or bodily sensation, or the directions thought might take during dreams or meditation. To the strengths and virtues of other people. It should not surprise that people who feel even five minutes a day of everyday awe are more curious about art, music, poetry, new scientific discoveries, philosophy, and questions about life and death. They feel more comfortable with mysteries, with that which cannot be explained.”

― Dacher Keltner, Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder

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Since 2017, I’ve taught a documentary theatre class for undergraduate and graduate students at a few different colleges and universities, and for the last few years, the topic we have chosen to focus on as inspiration for the original piece of theatre that we co-create as a class has been climate change. Students conduct first hand interviews with people, collect a variety of found source material, such as newspaper articles and media, write poetry, devise movement pieces, and eventually collage all these elements together in a play that they perform at the end of the semester.

The process is lengthy, the way forward isn’t always clear, and in the middle of the project, it can feel like a big mess. It’s wonderful.

Over the course of facilitating the creation of plays about climate change the last couple of years, a pattern emerged. I began to notice that students tended to gravitate towards both the horrific destruction that results from not caring for our one home, Earth, and the gorgeous places and remarkable experiences they have had on our planet that bring them a sense of wonder and awe, and that motivate them to keep working for change.

This past semester, after years of focusing on climate change as a topic for our documentary play process, I led my class through devising a play about wonder and awe. I felt a desire to see what would happen if we followed this thread that had emerged quietly over the previous years, and gave it center stage to speak. What would it have to say? Would it distract from the necessity of describing the ongoing destruction? How could telling stories of wonder undergird our desire for climate justice and ultimately strengthen our collective efforts?

Admittedly, wonder and awe feel like very broad topics to use for such a project, and I wasn’t sure how this new direction would play out. But, as I’ve begun to say in many areas of my life over the last couple of years, it was an experiment. When something is an experiment, there can’t really be a right or wrong outcomes, and one is almost guaranteed to learn something new no matter what. The zest of forging an unknown (to us) path felt intimating but energizing at the same time.

In doing a deep dive into the many definitions of wonder and ways that it can show itself in our day to day lives, the students extended an invitation to one another and to me. What does wonder look like for us in our own lives? What are collective experiences of awe? Where do these experiences hide?

There is wonder in new life, yes, but also the awe that accompanies being with someone you love as they prepare to live out the very last days of their life.

The simple act of watching a sunset - no two alike - and the joy of being in relationship with another human being, be them a friend, lover, or creative collaborator.

The Northern Lights. An eclipse. The Grand Canyon. The Pacific Ocean. The small vegetable garden in a backyard in New Hampshire. Our pets. The way the sun feels on your face on the first day of spring. Moments large and small, all sacred.

The presence of these moments transformed the way we told stories, created the play, and ultimately left the classroom at the end of the semester. Students shared that they felt transformed, as both human beings and artists. I feel this way, too.

As part of the documentary playmaking process, we shared quotes about wonder with one another, as part of the path to understanding what it means to different people, and how we can deliberately seek it out or notice it. One of my favorite quotes about wonder, specifically the wonder of nature, comes from the wonderful writer and environmental advocate Richard Louv. He tells us, “We cannot protect something we do not love, we cannot love what we do not know, and we cannot know what we do not see. Or hear. Or sense.”

In order to protect something, or someone, we must love them, but we too often try to do this without truly seeing and hearing them for who they are. To love, we need to offer our intentional presence. We need to slow down and be single minded. Not at all easy tasks in our current lives, which have been designed to keep us pushing for money and materials things, for faster results, and for more, more, more of whatever might get us status, power, and a respite from the vulnerability of what it means to be human.

In being intentional about defining and noticing wonder and awe in our own lives, and what we truly love, we don’t make the darkness disappear, but we do get to clarify what it is that we are fighting for. We root ourselves more deeply in all that is good and beautiful and worth continuing to choose hope for, even when it appears that there is no reason to hope.

So, I ask you (and me): what are you fighting for?

What do you love so much that you cannot bear to see it fall into ruin?

What do you love so much that it has the ability to kindle your heart the tiniest bit even when you feel you are smack in the middle of ruin?

What beauty takes your breath away and floods your heart with thankfulness to be alive, even alongside all the brutality and destruction?

So often, we are overcome with overwhelm, sorrow, and pain that we are not quite sure anymore what it is that roots us, that delights us, that even makes life feel worth living.

I believe that if we are to keep going, we must at least be willing to ask ourselves (and each other) these questions and listen to what arises from deep down inside of us.

We must dare to know so that we can love and protect.

What may begin as a whisper will likely get louder as we learn to listen and honor and offer ourselves (and each other) what we discover feels wondrous to us. We don’t need to eat a (metaphorical) seven course meal of wonder to feel full. Even a few bites will do.

If it feels helpful, try stepping away from any distractions for five minutes. You could even write some reflections in a journal, if you like.

What does wonder mean to you?

What was a moment that took your breath away?

When was the last time you experienced something you couldn’t explain?

For me, it’s the way the May air smells in the early morning when I leave my apartment to walk to the train.

The way writing poetry slows my breathing just enough and gives me something tangible to focus on when my mind and body are bouncing from one worry to the next. How it feels when two words click together on paper, and the pull I get in my chest when I say them aloud, even to myself.

The loving speech that I gratefully receive from nearby loved ones and long distance friends and kindred pen pals whom I’ve not yet met in person, and the way their words feel warm and stabilizing.

One of the wonder discoveries I made during the documentary playmaking process that made me feel an ache of awe deep down inside is the Pando in Utah. Have you heard of it? If you want to learn more about the Pando, you can read more about this 106 acre quaking aspen grove here. Pando is actually the largest single tree forest anywhere in the world (!) and is thought to be the largest living organism on Earth, weighing 13 million pounds. As many times as I’ve read about the 40,000 cloned trees that sprang from a single seed and share a complex root system, my brain breaks a little, in the best way. I am grateful for things I cannot understand.

I’m sharing one of the brand new poems in my upcoming collection, Take Me to the Thin Places (out June 20th), with you all, below.