The moment when I witness the moon disappearing behind silhouetted mountains and the Milky Way shows its ethereal shape is enough.
Feeling the rain soak my clothes and chill my feet, as I walk home barefoot from the sandwich shop in a downpour is enough.
Looking into the eyes of a songbird foraging for seeds, a wild rabbit munching on grass, or a whale coming up to breathe – and knowing I’ve been seen. That’s enough.
Giggling as the wind plays with my hair and startling from the cold splash of the surf on my sun-warmed legs is enough.
Surprise at the first taste of backyard lemon, relishing the first sighting of a deer in the wild, and fascinating at every stick, rock, and pile of sand is enough.
This is WONDER.
This is the deep nature connection I seek for my children.
There is no name I need to look up to make this better.
There is no map that can pinpoint this feeling.
There is no camera that can capture the smell of the salt air and how it means home.
There is no man-made game that can make me sit as still and focus as intently.
Nature is enough.
It doesn’t have to be an educational experience.
It doesn’t have to be a research project.
It doesn’t have to be a mountain to conquer or a rock face to climb.
It doesn’t have to be a trick or game to get me there.
It doesn’t have to be something for me only.
I want to see you what you see.
Feel what you feel.
Hear what you hear.
Smell what you smell.
Following your footsteps.
Wonder is better when shared.
In whispers.
Hands folded in mine.
Laps sitting.
Eyes.
It’s in the eyes.
When I look at you and you look back at me. And we know we’ve just shared something we can only share in this place.
This outdoor place that holds us and swallows us up in its green canopy, stream bubbling over rocks, and gravel crunching under our feet.
But what if you look at me and I’m looking at my phone?
Wonder?
Interrupted.
