Magnolias remind me powerfully of college, and of this particularly, wonder-full time of year
I write often about wonder here (I think wonder is one of the most-often used words in blog post titles of mine, and probably in the text of posts, too). It’s true that I feel awe and amazement on a regular basis, and that’s exactly how I want to experience the world. It’s not all good, of course: for example I feel nothing short of abject awe at how lousy vertigo feels. I’m writing this on day seven and I still feel shaky, nauseous, and flat-out terrible. I don’t even want to go on my kids’ favorite ride at Canobie Lake Park, the Turkish Twist, for two minutes. I’ve been trapped on it for a week now. This is terrible. And in the true meaning of the word, awe-some.
A lot of the wonder I feel is good, though, and as I walked to do an errand last week (bobbing around on the sidewalk, because I still struggle to walk in a completely straight line), I looked up and noticed that during one of my days in bed the world had burst into insistent, almost ferocious spring bloom. That this fact continues to amaze me, even in my fortieth year, makes me very glad. I started thinking about the things that I hope always make me feel wonder. I don’t ever want to be cynical, or jaded, or to take this world’s breathtaking beauty for granted.
I so many ways, spring is the season of amazement. I hope I always feel a surge of surprised delight when I notice that the trees around me are jubilantly blooming, that the air has a new, softer texture to it, that the days suddenly seem long. Like so many things in life, spring arrives very gradually and then, overnight.
So one thing I always hope to feel wonder at is the advent of spring. There are others, though:
Internet access in an airplane. In fact, airplanes in general. I hope I always feel wonder at how it is that this enormous metal tube is flying thousands of miles above the earth, and that I’m tweeting a I sit there. It’s downright incredible.
The speed of time’s passage. Specifically, right now, that Grace is graduating from sixth grade. I swear, I swear, it was just moments ago that my friends – some of whom I’m grateful to still call my friends – and I stood in that same gym, singing our class song, The Greatest Love of All, before exploding into summer, energy and enthusiasm and hormones all coming together into a tidal surge.
Dawn breaking across the sky and the gloaming before sunset. The fact that we get to witness these majestic moments, every single day (well, most, of it’s not raining), takes my breath away. Every day.
Organ transplantation. It’s not a secret that this is a cause near to me, and when I stop and think about the notion that another person’s heart (and another, different person’s kidney) beats in the chest of someone I love dearly I can’t even process it. The wonder is extreme. It boggles the mind. I hope transplantation becomes more common – please tell your next of kin of your desire to be a donor – but I hope it never ceases to amaze me. Because it is truly extraordinary.
What amazes you? What do you hope to always feel awe about?
This season always does it to me too. Well and fall as well. The leaves and flowers against the blue, blue sky. And how they do seemingly come out of no where. And the fact that we are the grown ups now. I am in awe of that. And that I am going to my 20th college reunion in a few weeks. That’s shocking. I do hope you are feeling better!
I am so with you at the wonder of time. I can’t believe we’re at the end of the school for the most part. I feel like I just got used to the grades my kids are in and the idea that they’re almost in the next one is amazing to me. I really don’t understand where the year went.
And I hope you’re feeling a little better!
I am so sorry you are feeling terrible and hope you find some relief soon. This week I am feeling amazed by the hummingbirds who have returned to our feeder. This is the second year that one flew right up to the window near where we were sitting as though to let us know they were back.
Oh yes. I am absolutely astonished by the world in so many small ways each day. Some cynics might find this cliched or childlike, but I, too, am in wonder at the way the world works, how Mary Oliver says it doesn’t have to be beautiful but it is, so what does that mean? I believe it is a gift, some strange mixture of awe and curiosity and humility.
Love that quote from Mary Oliver; I hadn’t heard it.
I, too, am continually amazed at the passage of time and the continuation of life in my children, and in each season. When we first moved into our house, it was the end of spring and no gardening had been done. There was a pile of wet leaves about three inches thick over the flower beds. And one tulip was just pushing its way through; it created a hole right through the leaves. That, to me, is wonderful.
My goodness, I don’t know how you can feel so terrible, but write so beautifully. I’m so sorry that you’re struggling and I’m sending you healing thoughts.
I, too, find nature to be a true wonder. Just this morning, there was a gorgeous red leaf on my lawn. In California. In May. Sadly the drought here is bad and things aren’t green and blooming the way they do most years, but every time I see a shift in a blossoming bush or tree, it takes my breath away.
I love it. “Spring arrives very gradually and then, overnight.” With Mother’s Day fast approaching I can’t believe my baby is so suddenly grown; very gradually and then, overnight. Lindsey, I’m sorry you don’t feel 100%. You are strong and brave and good to keep writing.
Hi Lynzi, hope you are feeling better soon. Nature amazes me a lot and even make me wonder. My kids are amazing me right now by how easily they are adapting the new country, new school and also managing witout a heater or hot water for last four days at 0-3 deg centigrade. We have moved from Qatar to Aberdeen in Scotland two months ago. While we were settling in a rental apartment our boiler was broken:) Kids taught me no point of moaning and get on with your life while the problamatical factors are being fixed:)
Lindsey,
Vertigo is so disconcerting and I know firsthand of the wobbly walk and the lousy feeling that you describe. I hope you are feeling better.
This piece is beautiful and your ability to remain still enough to write it, despite the spinning, leaves me standing in awe of your discipline and heart to get the words on the page. xo