A Sense of Wonder

I’m setting up for a book event. As I do, I make nice introductory noises at the person who will be my table neighbor for the day and give a quick glance at her books. Then I do a doubletake because there is a see-through travel beehive with actual bees inside.

I stop what I’m doing and go take a look.

 

I’m not unfamiliar with bees. I’ve gotten close ups before. My dad (and my grandfathers) kept bees. They started keeping them because they were told that local honey could possibly help me with my childhood chronic asthma issues.

Maybe it did (I don’t suffer from asthma anymore).

But one close up (or many) doesn’t mean the next won’t be as good. For honeybees are wonderful.

Not (only) because they are so valuable to our ecosystem (it’s not all about us) but, to name a few reasons, because of their intricate social structures, their amazing sense of direction and navigation, the way they can heat or cool their hives to keep it at a steady, precise temperature, their defense mechanisms, their symbiotic relationship with pollinating flowers, and their skill at communication.

As the day goes on, I get the most joy out of watching people pass by and, as I’d done, do a doubletake when they catch sight of the travel-hive.

 

The beekeeper-bookseller tells each person, “There’s a queen in there. See if you can find her.” Even as she also peers through the glass to find the queen herself.  

Though a few people ask for reassurance that the hive is secure and the bees aren’t loose (or won’t get loose), only a few people refuse to take a closer look. Most go to press their noses up against the glass to watch the bees work. To look for the queen among all the worker bees.

The son of one of the other vendor’s (a boy of 12 or so) comes over every so often to continue a conversation with me and then to look with intensity for the queen bee. But she stays out of sight.

When he has to return to his booth, the beekeeper tells him, “If I see her, I’ll yell for you.”

And when she finally does locate the queen, she yells out his name until he hears her and comes rushing over, quivering with excitement. After a moment, he darts away to go grab a phone so he can record the moment.

I can’t help the smile on my face. I’m experiencing vicarious wonder and it tastes as sweet as honey.

What I often miss by living in the city is a sense of wonder.

Not that I don’t get to sometimes sit and watch anoles in my mom’s backyard flaring their dewlap, leaping from one stem to another, or running across the deck only inches from my foot.

 

Or feel peace as a leaf drifts from a tree down to the ground in its own unique floating pattern.

Or track a bird flying across the clouds.

Or stop to listen to the trees sing as the wind stirs their leaves.

Or admire the purple flowers shaped like trumpets that I (probably mistakenly) call morning glories and which have sprung out of nowhere from one day to the next.

Or catch a glimpse of a coyote or a hawk.  

Or see the harvest moon rise up over the horizon, big and orange.

Not that wonder isn’t all around me. But that it can be too easy not to see it when the cement radiates heat up at me, the passing cars distract, or mosquitoes drive me inside.

But the wonder is there. If I take the time to notice.

If I pay attention.

Some days later, I find a different kind of wonder when I tag along with friends to a concert at the Grapevine Mills Grapefest to see another friend play piano with his band To-Jo, a Toto and Journey tribute band.

There, as the band warms up and does its soundcheck, I people watch and visit with my friends.

 

When the set starts, I sing along to the choruses I know, admire those who get up to dance (my dad would have), and, almost to my surprise (I don’t get out much), really enjoy myself.

As the band plays on, I’m reminded of the account I’d stumbled across one day while scrolling rather mindlessly online. NYC Preston Rakovsky videos himself asking people what makes them feel human and then (if possible) does that thing with them. After watching a few of his videos where one person said playing hopscotch made him feel human, another that getting matcha and having a conversation made her feel human, and another said taking a nap made her feel human, I’d reflected upon what I’d say if I was asked the same question.

I come up with two answers.

 

One: what makes me feel human is watching a play because there is this moment where I know it’s a play, that the stage is nothing more than boards, paper mache, or a painted backdrop, and that the actors are people pretending. And then, magically, at some point (like that unchartable moment between wakefulness and sleep), I’m transported beyond what I know is real and what I know is fake and am drawn into the play. It makes me feel human because it’s an agreed-upon arrangement between players and watchers using the species-specific trait of sharing a story with others.

Two: what makes me feel human is singing, singing in a choir, singing in a group, or listening to a choir or group use their voices together in melody or harmony, with language or wordless notes, with or without accompanying instruments. Singing or listening to singing make me feel human because it taps into something deep within me. Something that is not confined to only me. It’s a universal expression. It’s a transcendent form of connection.

There’s also something wonderful (yes, I’m feeling the wonder) about seeing people do a thing well. My friend plays well. And his band plays well. All in all, I’m feeling distinctly human.

And, in the moment, under a darkening Texas sky, with both friends and strangers around me, with music blaring through the speaker, tapping my foot in time to the beat, being human feels really good.

 

 

 

What makes you feel human?