Remaining Awake To The World

I wonder when we’re supposed to stop wondering.

One of the things I’ve noticed about adults is how rarely we seem to stop and marvel at ordinary things anymore.

We become very good at walking past them.

A beautiful sunset. A huge flock of birds changing direction in perfect synchrony. The moon hanging low enough to make you do a double take. A ladybird landing on your sleeve. A rainbow. A field of wildflowers. A cloud that looks exactly like a rabbit.

Somewhere along the way we seem to learn that noticing those things is a little…childish.

And I think that’s such a shame.

Because it’s probably the thing I love most about myself.

For 19 years I lived near a park with a huge lake full of swans. I walked around that lake almost every single day, and every single day I’d say exactly the same thing.

“Wow…look how many swans there are!”

Every day.

For 19 years.

My husband jokes that I have goldfish brain. Like I somehow forget everything I’ve seen 5 seconds after I’ve seen it.

But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.

I think my brain has somehow managed to hang onto the ability to be completely captivated by things I’ve already seen a thousand times before.

It’s as though every walk is my first walk.

I don’t look at the swans and think yes, swans, I’ve seen those.

I look at them and think…

How are there so many? How can such big birds fly? Why do they stay together in such a big community?…

And then I’m off again.

Because that’s how my brain works.

In questions.

Honestly, on one ordinary walk I’ll probably ask myself fifty of them…

Why is the sky that shade of blue today?

What makes one beach sandy and another one pebbly?

Why do weeds always seem to grow in exactly that spot?

Why is that bird all on its own?

Who’s flying that kite?

Where did that woman get that skirt?

Why is that man sitting over there?

Sometimes the questions escape and I say them out loud.

Most of the time they just drift through my mind before making room for the next one.

Like a child’s balloons bobbing gently in a breeze.

I rarely go looking for the answers.

I just enjoy carrying the questions for a while.

Which made me wonder – are curiosity and wonder are actually different things?

Psychologists describe curiosity as the feeling that appears when we notice a gap between what we know and what we’d like to know. It’s one of the brain’s great learning engines, nudging us towards new ideas and experiences.

But more recently researchers have started separating curiosity from something a little gentler: wonder.

Curiosity wants to open the door.

Wonder is happy simply standing on the doorstep.

It doesn’t urgently need to solve the mystery. It just enjoys being in the presence of it.

I love that distinction.

Because I don’t think I’m trying to understand the world nearly as much as I’m naturally staying awake to it.

There’s also something beautifully reassuring in the research around awe. Those moments when we’re stopped in our tracks by something beautiful, vast or unexpectedly ordinary don’t just feel nice.

They appear to quieten our constant internal chatter, make us feel more connected to other people and remind us that we’re part of something much bigger than ourselves.

Maybe that’s why children seem to stumble into awe so effortlessly.

Everything is new.

Everything deserves another look.

Everything begins with why?

Then somewhere along the way we become adults.

We’re told to ‘grow-up’.

We become efficient, productive, always on the go.

Our brains stop paying attention to familiar things because familiar things no longer require our attention.

Neuroscientists call it habituation.

It’s one of the brain’s cleverest shortcuts. If we reacted with amazement every single time we saw a tree or a pigeon we’d probably never get anything done.

Useful.

But perhaps a tiny bit tragic too.

Because somewhere inside that efficiency, I wonder if we accidentally stop seeing.

Not because the world became less magical, because it absolutely hasn’t.

But because it became familiar.

People sometimes tell me I’m away with the fairies, and I’ve never understood why that’s supposed to be an insult.

What a lovely place to spend a little time – a world where the ordinary still feels extraordinary.

Where questions are allowed to exist without immediately needing answers.

Where you’ve seen the same swans thousands of times and somehow, they’re still the most astonishing thing you’ve seen all day.

I hope that part of me never grows-up.

Because I never want to lose the childlike wonder that reminds me the world is still full of things worth noticing.