our capacity for wonder

questions we forgot to ask

the intricacies of the purple and red veins of a simple brown leaf spider outwards. as if painted by the most precise of hands. incomprehensibly beautiful in the simplest of art forms. a complex pattern crafted. inconceivable.

and yet, once our tired eyes have locked onto the glittering hues of orange and red at sunset. once they have been blinded by the beauty of the shining snow, crunching underfoot. once they have been blessed by smiles etched onto familiar faces, laughter bubbling underneath their skin. the comforting brown of the leaf fades into the category of mundane. normal.

nothing in particular, nothing at all.

crumbling under calloused fingers. crushed like a bug under foot. glistening colourful armour fractured. fragments scattered about the grey ground.

the veins grasp out, as though looking for something beyond themselves - just as we do. mirroring the human hunger for knowledge. that same hunger compels those small soft hands to reach up and ask ‘why?’ for them to listen intently as if you are spilling the secrets of the world. then they proceed to ask ‘why?’ again through sticky jam covered mouths.

where did that ‘why’ go?

first, that why wears thin beneath the sighs of your weary mother. then it frays underneath the weight of a teacher’s dismissal - not on the test. slowly slipping from conversation. crumbling. until, it becomes a word quietly filed away. reserved for the childish and naïve.

where did it disappear to?

perhaps it buries itself into the rituals of adulthood. into most ordinary of things. the swirling of milk in strong black coffee. for a fleeting second, you notice that swirling pattern. replicating the spinning constellations within a porcelain cup. mirroring the extraordinary in our ordinary.

as the drip of bitter coffee coats your tongue, you blink away that pattern as nothing but milk.

and yet, that pattern begs you to question.

to ask ‘why?’

to wonder. to dance after the sweet taste of knowledge like a drug. to look at that brown leaf in awe. to let your mind wander through fields of the unknown desperately searching for a pop of red. a familiar fruit. a sharp sweet taste of success.

to frantically grapple for the answer to that why like a hyperactive toddler. to compress the words of the people before you into the pink soft of your brain. wishing. waiting. for it to click - like electricity running through your fingertips.

obsessively itching to know. compelled by the force of youthful curiosity.

that itching is often treated by soft words and calm voices, urging you. urging you to dull the mindless wave of questions constantly pulling you under with the desperation to know. a ceaseless narration.

ebbing and flowing. ebbing and flowing.

and often the urging forces the hiss of that ocean to calm. thoughts flowing instead of crashing. the current no longer pulling you under, rather pushing you along peacefully. perfectly tranquil. like a tidepool, shallow enough to stand in.

ordinary envelopes you once more. routine dictating the smallest of habits. your mind wandering only as far as the border that contains it.

just as constellations hide in coffee - wonder hides in the road signs we ignore. dirt encrusted on the sides. the familiar fluorescence encasing the text, that ordinary shine that accompanies our drives. speaking the same language of light that guides scorpions on the dry desert floor. that language translated into something we call ordinary. wonder lies in the everyday - simply waiting for us to look for it.

parts of our world unimaginable to the human mind present themselves everywhere. you just glimpse. you glance thoughtless. preoccupied. always preoccupied.

the crack of the pavement. the hum of the fridge resembling distant thunder.

the graceful patter of rain on the pavement.

a tumbling pile of books - becomes a question.

the groan and pull of the train - becomes a question.

who are they, those strangers?

what makes them snicker? why those shoes? what makes them feel alive?

even passing faces offering mysteries.

yet, society teaches us to repress this part of us. that childish wonder. that ceaseless questioning. that untamed curiosity.

the more you look at the leaf, the more you see. as the veins spider outwards. as the coffee swirls.

confronting ordinary aspects of life which are commensurate to our capacity for wonder.

so when your foot hovers over that crumbling brown leaf - pause. when you pour your coffee, or glance at a street sign - pause.

and wonder, just wonder.

compelled into an aesthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder

- The Great Gatsby