There are moments in life that take one’s breath away. A giant waterfall that took miles to hike for the view from above, cascading into the depths of a canyon. A newborn baby’s first cry. A radiant sunrise reaching above white mountain peaks, illuminating everything in sight with pink light. Moments like this are when all the worries of life fade away, and the present is all there is.

Some days, it feels like we were built for wonder.

I like to say that my Oma, now passed away, was wonderful — and she was. Truly wonderful. But what I mean, more than saying that she was wonderful in the sense of being a great person, is that she was chock FULL of wonder. Even into her nineties, she looked at the world with wide eyes of astonishment. She would often draw my attention to the smallest things. A little herb growing between the cracks in the pavement. The growth and change of her children and grandchildren. A rock in her garden. Things all around her, truly delighted her.

She lived a fairly simple life. She never owned a smartphone. She didn’t travel too much, and especially not in the later years of her life. She wasn’t exposed to a culture designed to shock her and compete for her attention. And yet, she was in awe every day, at whatever it was that grabbed her attention in the moment. I think of her every time I have a small, surprising moment of joy. I think of her with gratitude for guiding me to moments of delight.

“All the Gifts that Still Remain”, Marcie Rohr, 2024

Another person comes to mind when I think about wonder. She was a microbiologist living in Mexico City, but she confessed to me, as she cared for my Grandfather in his death, that the job of being a microbiologist was way too fun, and she found it all consuming. Get her looking under a microscope, and she might never want to look at anything else. She moved to Canada and became an LPN, serving people in the last days of her life. I never knew her as a microbiologist, but I knew her as a nurse, and she was amazing at it. I suspect she was also amazing at her previous job, because she lived her life with eyes wide open, paying attention.

My sister was also a person regularly astonished with her life. I remember the look on her face when she bit into an orange, about a week after recovering from chemotherapy, when she was too nauseous to eat anything else. She was so content and so happy to savour that bite. I can’t remember her exact wording, but she said, it’s just so good to be alive.

And she’s not wrong — it really is just so amazing to be alive.

Sometimes in my life, I’ve felt like I needed a mental cleanse, a reset, because it seems there is a kind of baseline for viewing the world with awe and gratitude. It’s very nostalgic to get back to that place. I’ve found there’s a close relationship between taking in wonder, and reuniting with the inner child.

The reset often comes from hardship. Having that good stuff taken away is what makes it seem so sweet and so special. I remember the feeling of spring, of that first feeling of warmth on the skin, after a long cold winter of minus 20 degrees in Edmonton. Now that I live in the Vancouver area, that first warm spring day feels good, but honestly, it’s not quite the same, as the warmth that was hard fought for in the days where snow swirled all around and the wind had a nasty bite to it.

Is there a recipe for noticing wonder? I don’t really know, but I can take some guesses. It could be that a decision is made, inside, to welcome it. To believe that moments of amazement can come from the nuances of daily life. I think also, making some time for it. Choosing not to fill the mind with entertainment inherently designed to distract. Making peace with a boring day can ironically give the mind a chance to notice interesting things everywhere.

Making space and time for art is a way that wonder can become part of daily life. A conscious decision to take it in. I’d say, it means that if you are going to look at art, really look at it. Go to a gallery and stand in front of a painting, for longer than is comfortable. Scan the edges. Step as close as you can. Look at the intricate details. Then, step back. Take time with it. Squint. Take it up on its invitation to stop you in your tracks and give you room to ponder. Even if you don’t consider yourself someone who understands art, you might be surprised by a sudden realization that comes to you. Be careful, it might change the way you see everything!

If you are going to listen to music, really listen. Try to listen to each instrument. Pay attention to the rhythm. Listen to how the decisions are made, the spaces of silence, the pace, and the words. Let it move you.

If you are going to taste food, really taste it. Notice the place on your tongue where the flavour is realized. Pay attention to how sweet and salty flavours are realized at different times. Close your eyes and let the flavour be the only thing you notice.

To make decent art, I have to make time to slow down. I have to notice things. And I’ve noticed, that it’s not easy. There are so many distractions, and so much competing for my attention. I’ve learned that what I want to bring to the world is a reflection of wonder, the wonder I feel when I interact with life from my base, childlike experience of awe and joy. I want to share the way I feel when I say WOW, or, when I simply have no words. I’ve felt this way about classical music before, and that’s what I want to convey through my art. The experience of sitting with something, and allowing wonder to dance at the forefront of my mind. It’s an experience that feels like really living.

So here’s to living in the moment, to saying wow, to wonder, to wondering, and to being wonderful. May you find a moment of wonder today.

A Recipe for Wonder

Marcie's Blog