“Where is your Self to be found? Always in the deepest enchantment you have experienced.”
— Hugo Von Hofmannsthal
Things are looking bleak. Not that I needed any confirmation, but when a friend—whose general outlook is one of magical illumination—sent me a text that included the phrase “before the end of the world,” I knew it wasn’t just me feeling this way. With that in mind, I’ve been making choices accordingly. So when the opportunity arose to once again horn in on my brother’s family vacation, I grabbed a friend and jumped at the chance without hesitation. This was my third visit to the tiny island nation of Iceland and there was not a single moment of disappointment: exploring ice caves nestled over active volcanoes, soaking in a geothermal river on the side of a moss and snow-covered mountain, watching wild waves crash onto a black sand beach from my perch on a tall basalt wall.
There are few places I long to return to in my wanderlust-fueled mission to see as much of this planet as possible, but Iceland is one of them. (I’m already planning to host another retreat there in November 2026—let me know if you want in.) It’s mystical, magical, magnificent—maybe some other adjectives that begin with M. The landscapes are uniquely wild, the people and culture rich, the food unforgettable. But above all, it’s the nature. It awakens something in me that is not always present—or at least, not always easily accessible. It opens something in me that feels like fullness. That thing is wonder. And I am a big believer that wonder is as sure a path as any to the Self.
In an effort to stave off jet lag and stay awake with hopes of seeing the Northern Lights, we spent most evenings playing cards until the wee hours. My sister-in-law diligently working at her computer; my brother silently stewing at his unfortunate seat to my left; my nephew and Kristina splitting their efforts between making each other laugh and vying for hearts. And me: eating every salty snack in sight, one eye on my hand, the other on my Aurora app– forecasts, percentages, sighting reports. On our last night, the odds were decidedly not in our favor. I stepped onto the deck again and again, scanning the sky. Nothing.
But the truth is, it’s never really nothing. Like so many other magical things, sometimes the aurora is present, but the conditions obscure it from view. It makes me think of yoga, of meditation, of prana and consciousness. Of our struggles as seekers, and as humans who are desperately trying to be awake—to the moment, to our lives, to each other. How often do we fail to see what is right in front of us because our inner lens is clouded, or we just aren’t looking from the right perspective? How many times do we miss things because we are too afraid, we give up too soon, or are simply not paying attention? Often. I think the answer is often.
As we wrapped up cards for the night, I thought, let me check just once more…
“It’s HAPPENING!” I screamed from the deck. And again, we gathered—one last time. In pajamas and flip-flops, decked in parkas or wrapped in blankets. Standing and staring, filled with wonder as the sky danced before our eyes. Even now I am filled with both the bigness and the smallness of it. That we get to experience this life, this infinite universe– that we are an irreplaceable, intrinsic element of the whole. Simultaneously, we are tiny specks, here in a small way for the shortest time. This is what it means to live.
In these now times that can feel very much like the end times, I think wonder is a necessity. To be filled with light and life. To be momentarily illuminated from the inside out. To be suspended outside of time. To sidle in toward the Self every chance we get.
Like the sun, the moon, and the stars, wonder is always there. Even when you don’t see it. Even when you aren’t paying attention. And while there are peak moments—like witnessing the aurora—there is no shortage of opportunities to tap into magic. But you have to know what that means for you. For me, it’s always nature. The wildlife. Stillness and silence. Music and movement. And all of those things are easily missed (or become mundane aspects of existence like background noise) if I don’t make my attention to them a priority—if I don’t slow down and focus on the present moment. I think the slowing down is key.
Time moves slowly for children because everything is new. Neural pathways are not yet fully established, and their little brains are constantly processing and storing vast amounts of information. It also doesn’t hurt that children are always more present-oriented—less caught up in the past or anxious about the future— than their full-sized counterparts. They are regularly enchanted because everything is actually new. Is it possible to embody that?
Perhaps you can’t turn back time, but what can you do? In addition to keeping your eyes and heart open for the possibility of wonder, how else can you access the excitement that comes from newness? Consider: how many things have you not yet tried, learned, or tasted? How many places have you not visited? And how much have you overlooked in the places and people that are familiar?
Most importantly, how much control do you have over your own mind? Or maybe a better question—how often do you choose to exert that control? To experience wonder, we must be entirely present, aware of our choices, committed to seeing with new eyes. We have to claim beginner’s mind, pay attention, and open ourselves to new things. It’s a choice, an attitude, and a practice to stay open and available to the smallest details, and to the unexpected.
We have a magical, magnificent world and a grievously short life to enjoy. Both/and.
What might be possible for you if you opened up to wonder?
Blessings. All of them.
xoj
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