Seeking Wonder

Photo by Benjamin Voros on Unsplash.

At the beginning of 2020, on Epiphany, we did something for the first time at my church: we picked a word for the year. Words had been written on paper stars, and individuals drew a star from baskets that were sent around the congregation. Many of us didn't choose our word, we let the word choose us. The word that chose me was "wonder." The idea of having a word for the year isn't exactly a new concept, but for me it was a new practice. Though I'm familiar with intention setting in  yoga, which often calls upon you to keep a word handy in your heart, I'd never had one for an entire year. It's wild to think that I did this only three months ago...I have to remind myself that it hasn't been a whole year yet.

If I had been left to choose a word on my own, and if knew what was coming in 2020, I definitely would not have chosen the word "wonder." I probably would have tried for something like "calm," "peace," "health," "help!" But still, wonder chose me. And I feel called to follow the word where it leads me, deep into dark woods and nightmares and anxiety and back out into bright sunshine and hope and happiness. What amazes me? What grabs my attention? What asks me to admire it? What is mysterious and surprising? Where's the beauty in uncertainty?

One of my favorite quotes of all time is by J.R.R. Tolkien (I love it so much that it's in my personal email signature and it inspired the name of this blog, which actually was the name of my very first blog I ever had): "All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us." In the chaos of COVID-19, I find that I have so much time and yet none at all, depending on how you look at things. Time seems surreal right now. Juggling work and a baby at home seems so consuming and then there are these wondrous moments when we get to decide how to fill the space. Writing has always been important and helpful to me, and writing on my journey of wonder feels right. In between the spaces, in the cracks where the light creeps in and the wind slips its hand in mine and calls for adventure, I'll be seeking (and sharing) wonder.

So to kick off my blog, I'll share something that I didn't start doing intentionally but that became a habit, a mysterious and bittersweet and wonder-full one. My Grampy used to sing to my sister and me: "Over the mountains and over the sea, I see the moon and the moon sees me." He lived in Virginia, and after I moved to northern Virginia, I would on occasion pick him up and drive us both down to North Carolina, my home state, for visits with our family. When I was driving to collect him, I would get up super early to avoid the awful D.C. rush hour traffic, and I'd look for the moon. I'd say "I see the moon!" with enthusiasm, willing Grampy to feel my excitement that I'd see him soon and we'd be on our way. After his death five years ago, I'd find myself looking for the moon. I found myself talking to him, and sometimes all I'd say is, "I see the moon." And I still do.

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