• Convincing myself that “shucking” is onomatopoetic
• Embracing summer rather than retreating from her
• Admitting that his baby feet are not so baby anymore
• Smiling at my little man’s inventiveness concerning games- can you guess his favorite?

• Discovering the savory side of berries
• Pedaling ever more confidently all over the city
• Puzzling over  how one meets people in a new city without a bank of classmates or coworkers
• Appreciating how old friends in a new place can make the new place feel more comfortable
• Ironing out my laundry routine so that I’m not monopolizing the coin op machines but also have diapers always at the ready
• Expanding my carnivorous horizons through Mint Creek Farm’s meat CSA. (Lamb spare ribs, where have you been all my life?)
• Witnessing a paradigm shift in my thinking about nature after realizing that animals observe us just as much as (or more than) we observe them
• Finding excuses to put herbs from my window boxes into anything
• Growing a new kombucha scoby
• Flavoring that kombucha with the essence of summer- blueberries, tarragon, peaches, pineapple sage, and melon, and…
• Pointing out every time I see a front yard/ roof top/ community garden that’s thriving

Aside from making me desperately want to invest in a telephoto lens, moments like this also serve to remind me of my place. I am not all there is. I am not the only one who eats. I am not the be-all-end-all of creation. As startling as it is to come across it while surrounded by sidewalks, front doors, and mailboxes, the truth still stands that all death breeds life.

Somewhere in the middle of a normal day, amidst dirty dishes and laundry on the line, this happened. I don’t know when. Since planting these seeds almost three weeks ago, I’ve checked them compulsively. Nothing ever happened. Like a character in a parable, my faith wavered. And then, in the middle of wiping off the table, I happened to glance at the terra cotta pot supposedly cradling my seeds… and there it was. Someone less familiar with the terrain of that pot would not have noticed it.  All bent double, the bend barely visible above the dirt. But to me, who had studied this pot for days for any sign to bolster my flat faith, the effervescent green was as arresting as a soda can exploding in my hand.

I watched throughout the day as the fetal sprout slowly stretched and straightened. I also began to notice others bending through the surface. There are four now altogether. Such abundance to someone who despaired of having any seedlings just hours ago.

It is exactly this kind of event that rouses me to continue stalking wonder.  It reminds me that while I go about my routine of scrubbing sticky spots off the table and chopping onions, a ritual of a different kind is also in progress. And in the moment that our two quotidians meet, the whole rest of the world becomes wonder-full. That little shoot, like a good fairy tale, reminds that there is more going on in my world than me. I’m suddenly conscious of the earthworms deep under my feet as I hang laundry to dry. Of the yeasts that are feeding on the flour and water of my bread dough and making it rise. Of the microbes that are even now turning those onion peels into compost. Of all the hundreds and thousands of seeds that nobody planted that are germinating right along with my pampered seedling.

What makes me wonder most, however, is that this is not extraordinary. It’s not a once in a lifetime event, like seeing Halley’s Comet. You don’t have to be in the right place at the right time in order to experience it. It’s happening all the time, for anyone to see. Whether your routine involves an early morning shower and a commute or slippers and a pairing knife, there is another ancient routine progressing right alongside yours. The wonder comes in both slowing your routine enough to notice the other, and then continuing your routine heartened by having a steady companion on your way.

Stalking Wonder*.
Doesn’t that sound like a noble pursuit?  It has the tinge of both the hunter and the poet about it. Of all the things that we stalk- a happy marriage, good books, comfortable shoes, the perfect tomato, a good cup of coffee, a rewarding career- I think wonder is among the most neglected.  Perhaps because it is wonderfully non-essential to life. A person could go along perfectly well, happy even, without it. There is no physical need to pause in a chunk of warm sunlight before passing on. But there is little doubt that life becomes more pleasurable with such moments.

I don’t mean to imply that wonder is synonymous with pleasure, although the concepts do overlap. Pleasure, while certainly a force to be reckoned with, tends to be one sided.  For those of you with highly developed theologies of pleasure who are already arguing with me, hear me out. Pleasure, as conventionally understood, focuses on my sensations.  Like when enjoying the hot water pounding on my back in the shower, I have no thought for the people and systems that bring that hot water to me everyday. While not necessarily harmful, pleasure is at most benignly selfish.

Wonder, on the other hand, implies a meeting of spirits. It fosters an awareness of lives beyond just me. Sometimes an awareness of human lives, of course. Like finding an old book with many dog-eared pages, witness to the fact the someone else has gone before me. But more often what wonders me is an awareness of the fact that there is a whole system that, while welcoming my active participation, does not necessarily rely on it. Like finding the vigorous patch of clover in a corner of my yard with the unseen slug trail across it. My morning was enriched by noticing the path the slug took, but no harm would have come to the slug or clover if I had overlooked it. Wonder reminds me not only that this system exists, but that I am in a relationship with it. By which I mean our lives are dependent on the other’s health. And, like Wendell Berry has said, of our two lives, mine is meant to be the shorter and therefore more conservative. This wonder reminds me that the world is not my oyster, but that the oyster is my world.

Granted, such thoughts seem a little intense to come from pausing in a chunk of sunlight or noticing a slug trail on clover. But intentionally pausing for such thoughts, even stalking them, I find helps me peer through the weave of my selfishness, which is a wonder-ful thing in itself.  In an attempt to become more adept at stalking, I intend to post a picture that inspires wonder in me each week. Please feel free to add your own stories of stalking (and perhaps capturing) wonder.

*Christmas seems an appropriate time of year to have discovered such a phrase. And discover it I did; it’s not my own creation. I come to it third hand.  I stumbled across it in the blog Tea and Cookies, who, it seems, purloined it from Jennifer Jeffrey, a writer and editor in San Francisco.