Points of Wonder

-

 "I return to this point of wonder." 

Last week I was at a coffee shop, catching up on some of my favorite writer's posts from the last few weeks. One of my favorites, Suleika Jaouad, has a prompt at the end of her piece that reads: 

"Write about something that you find wondrous. Something strange, beautiful, unlikely, or all of the above. If you'd like, use this as an entry point: 'I return to this point of wonder.'"

These past few weeks have reminded me that life holds many things, no matter where you are. Sometimes you have to have unexpectedly hard conversations with ones you love, sometimes horrible things happen in the world, sometimes you feel like you're not good enough at something, sometimes the idea that you are in charge of your future is too much to bear, and sometimes you miss your loved ones so much it makes your insides ache. 

The words "I return to this point of wonder" feel almost tangible, like such wondrous moments will prick your heart and become tiny pieces you can touch and hold and warm in your hand until they feel familiar.

I am grateful that I have been able to collect pieces of wonder in the last few weeks that I can return to when I need to feel grounded. Breathing salty crisp air from the beach on the western coastline,  harvesting grapes at a winery in the sunshine, hiking to the top of a waterfall and admiring how it eventually turns into gentle sweet mist, admiring bursts of fall colors in a quiet neighborhood, cooking soup in my little studio, folding paper pumpkins with kiddos, being invited in for tea with my landlord and sharing our life stories, watching favorite fall films, and holding loved ones both in person and through phone calls. 

As I write this post right now, I am feeling sad. I am sad about a lot of things that are happening outside of my control lately. It feels jarring and upsetting and difficult. And yet, I return to these points of wonder. And I admire how all of it is feels strange, unlikely and beautiful. 




Playlist recommendation: Fall (West Coast Version)

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Jumbled Landscapes

-
Image
An ache blooms somewhere inside me as I see houses dotted with holiday lights and glass bulbs hanging on bare branches at the same time that I realize  it is time to move on. I pass houses and look at the sun lacing through the trees and wonder what it might be like to be here during the summer.  I pass a yellow van and think of how I told you last month  that it would be fun to have a van like that  and drive across different landscapes. I take pictures of the street using my new photo app  that doesn’t show me the pictures right away and allows them to develop first. I slip my phone back in my pocket hoping I caught the light just right. I return home through the front door and turn on the kettle to use the last spoonfuls of my coffee grounds. I am a jumble of longing, stillness, joy. As I pour the boiling water, I am grateful that I can choose to brew myself coffee in the late afternoon. 
Read more

You Are Here

-
Image
Last week, I was trying to push through the routines I had created for myself, and noticed sadness had settled in my chest. I didn’t quite know how much it weighed, let alone how to remove it. Out the window it was both raining and snowing, adding to the heavy texture of the day. I took a picture of the raindrops sliding down the glass, opened up a new window on my laptop, and typed out this poem:  As the rain trickles, I  am also reaching down to where I am grounded. I ache for the slow journey downward to be  smooth and effortless  like the raindrops gliding  down cool glass.  And I exhaled, feeling content with the way my creative practices can bring me home.  This past weekend, my sister and I took a trip to New York City. After settling into her friend’s apartment on the upper west side, we set out to go for a walk in Morningside Park. The sun was shining, it was 55 degrees and just so serene all I could do was turn to Gretchen and say “this feels...
Read more

February

-
Image
  to be in my body, to be in my body, to be in my body, to be in my body, to be in my body. February 1st, 2021 As I slip into my car in the early morning light, my body tenses as it meets the frigid interior. I sit still, willing for the tiny space to warm quickly. I grit my teeth, grab my ice scraper from the passenger seat, and climb back outside to chip away at the icy surface stretching across my windshield.  Once I arrive at work, I am disappointed that my toes still sting from the cold, despite my wool socks and sturdy boots. Unfortunately, the heat blasting from the dashboard doesn’t seem to quite meet the lowest part of my body. I will my blood flow to increase to my toes, to rush each one with a tingling warmth.  I care for my body. I try to keep it warm in the winter - to wear mittens when I grip the cold steering wheel, to moisturize my skin when it cracks, to stay inside and practice mediation and fill my lungs with clean breaths. I trust my body. But at times...
Read more