How do we get back our wonder at being alive?

Ten little ways I've found this week

I’ve learned to cover up how desperate I am to get underneath the ordinary. Just as water residue eventually clouds the shower glass even after a good clean, the distance eventually builds between myself and the day even after an hour when I really feel alive. It’s maddening.

If my core self had a mantra, it would be one word: more. I am always wanting more of this life. More in a conversation. More understanding of myself and everyone else. More fun. More in a night. More time spent feeling. At 10 am walking down the street, I’m searching on Spotify for a podcast or a song that will lift me out of the mundane. As words skitter across this page, I’m erasing them and searching for new ones that will leave my heart and meet yours.

Photo by fer gomez on Unsplash

Maybe we all feel this way when we are young, and then we learn to behave. I used to think adulting would mean I’d arrive somewhere real and stay there. But this is the same as believing in a world where the shower glass will someday turn clear forever.

Some things do wipe the glass, though, at least for a bit. I’ve been keeping little notes this week on what’s done it:

1. Walking under the flowering trees. This year, this season, the spring blooms are everywhere. Look, I keep saying. Look at this one on the side of the road. Look at the pink and the white together.

2. Listening to a full album from start to finish—lately, this one by Gregory Alan Isakov, who I’m seeing with the Colorado Symphony this weekend.

3. During a spin class when the lights are low and the volume is high and “Walking on Broken Glass” is playing, and I let myself really feel the lyrics.

4. Dancing around the kitchen.

5. Feeling my stomach drop jumping on a trampoline.

6. Looking into a friend’s eyes and letting my enthusiasm spill over.

7. Allowing a little sweetness to be added to my latte and then tasting it.

8. Putting on an outfit that suits the day.

9. Sitting on a back porch with my mom on a sunny day and talking over just about everything.

10. Hearing the smile on my dad’s face as he says one last funny-sweet thing to me and my mom as he is wheeled back for knee surgery.

I’m learning to let go of my shame around my deep desire to touch what’s real. It’s what keeps me writing and talking and tearing up and trying something new. The trouble comes from believing it’s possible always. Or believing that if there were such a thing as a permanently clear state, I’d even be able to appreciate it.

Maybe the crazier I am driven by the barrier between me and what’s real, the harder I can fall for life.

Look for the next Creative Sort on Friday, May 9