The Nature of Wonder

It was my dear, late father who taught me the joys of gardening.

As I write this it is a beautiful spring day. The sun is shining, but the wind is strong. The day is fresh as we say in these parts. I look down at the small patch of earth the planet has graciously provided me with, and which I tend and call my garden. The seeds sown last year are now blossoming; tiny heads of petal coloured lavender and white. I remember back to my efforts. The tilling of the soil. The sowing of the seeds. The watering, the weeding, the protection from the frost in times of need. Today I reap the harvest of joy that I see in their beauty. And the earth speaks to me in a way for which I am thankful and grateful; this cycle never ceases to fill me with wonder.

Tending to these little seeds has shown me that we must provide shelter in preparation for the time when the needy will be strong and assured enough to face it alone. The seeds took to life and have grown, their pretty little faces now turned towards the spring sun. It is a wonderous thing indeed to think that my hands may have played a small part in their stirring; it is pride as a parent may feel for a child, now fully grown and confident enough to make their own way in the world.

It also informs me there is no perfect programme to life. It is hard work, it is messy, it is difficult, but it is also worthwhile. The sense of accomplishment one feels when the season of reward finally comes is immense, and the joy felt is the joy of a job well done. Every time I tend to them, I think of my father. I remember how his large hands were so gentle with the guests, as he would call them, in his garden. For they would come and go with the seasons, tourists returning back to a favourite hotel, every year to enjoy the warming of the sun. He would speak to them with words of welcome, and walk about his garden like a good host, to make sure his friends were watered and well fed. He would sit amongst them until the sun turned to the west, sipping a well earned cup of coffee. The serenity in his demeanour, the joy in his eyes would fill me with wonder.

Watching my father in his garden filled me with a strong desire to write what I saw, to be able to pick and choose from amongst all those words I loved dearly, and describe the feelings I wanted to share. And on one such occasion, as my father was drinking his afternoon coffee, I told him of my need to write down the things I saw that moved me.

He asked me, "Do you want to be a writer?"

"I don't know," I said, truthfully. The first time I can remember wanting to write was several years earlier. I was six years old. It happened in an empty, gaudily green-walled classroom; that, too, had been on a cool spring day.

Realising that my reading and writing abilities had kicked in early, my primary school teacher was at a loss to know what to do with me. While my friends were struggling to read Dr. Seuss, I had come to school reading Dostoyevsky. She finally decided to bring me to the attention of an English professor she knew, and he had set me the task of writing a poem. The subject was food, and my hesitant attempt was titled simply, "The Apple". I had read the Bible the previous year and was trying to work out its absurdities as best I could back then in the poem.

I was sitting at a school table finishing it off when my teacher and her associate walked up behind. I could feel him reading over my shoulder. I felt anxious, embarrassed. This little thing I was making, this first poem, was being scrutinised by a very serious critic. As a result of my addiction to Shakespeare, at that young age his name was already known to me. He was a Shakespearean scholar, an award-winning playwright and a teacher of literature, including poetry. I didn't feel at all comfortable having my fragile young poem laid out exposed on the autopsy table of his critical mind.

So there I sat, hoping the ground would swallow me, or they would put away their figurative scalpels. It must have only been a minute, but it felt much longer. Then: "You may have a talent for writing," he said. And then they left me to get on with my poem.

The next day, my teacher had something to give me. Her friend had sent over his very own second-hand typewriter for me to use should I want it. She had looked uncertain, assuming I would turn my nose up at such a battered, ancient relic. But I had immediately fallen in love with it. The first thing I banged out on it was a thank you note.

In my father's garden, on that day in a school of a different kind, he knew this. I could see it in his eyes. "If you want to write, be a writer."

"I don't want to, I need to. There is just something in me that opens my heart to words. They stir inside like migratory birds wanting to take flight. And I want to set them free."

He stared at me for the tiniest moment, before he replied, "You know there is a myth that says Constantinople fell at the seige because of an open door, but the seige was won because of the open hearts of men who truly believed in something. That is how wars are won. You will have many wars, my son, because you are different. Your weapon is the word, but as long as you write with an open heart, you will always pull through. But you must believe in it."

You will have many wars, my son, because you are different.

I was sixteen years old when I next heard someone say something similar to me. They were both kind and cruel. And I never forgot them. Being a nature lover since the age of ten, it had always instructed me that difference was not only beautiful, but essential. Evolution thrives in diversity. My species, however, even my own father, was telling me I would need to arm myself because of my differences. It confused me; the joy I felt in the connections of a myriad of combinations joining in random selections to create something even more unique was always a source of wonder to me. It was what gave life to a repeating cycle; my human being family, however, was telling me I had to merely repeat what I saw in others, and not what I felt in myself.

I, on the other hand, only wanted to emulate what moved me, what I wanted to write about. I didn't want to be a writer, it was just my need to write about the things that moved me, which signalled to me that there was a lesson to learn, something new to add to the lexicon of the heart. Language is a burgeoning tree, and yet, for a while after, I felled that tree inside me. I stopped giving the birds in my spirit flight. Gradually I wrote less and less. I fell into line with my human society.

I pursued other interests, as physical and as far away from words as I could place myself - athletics, martial arts training, travelling, the people who showed an interest for a quick moment of intimacy - soon crowded themselves into my life, and I abandoned my writing. I began to feel guilty about deserting that one constant which had never failed me. To assuage my guilt, I promised myself that my other activities were life experience and that I needed life experience to one day use my typewriter again.

In developing this excuse for not writing, I was building a structure of self-deception that so many people live inside when they abandon their dreams. From the outside it looks like you are doing nothing. But from the inside you know that you are in the process of becoming, which, you convince yourself, is the next best thing to being. The truth was, in my confusion, I had stifled my wonder, and never really listened to what my father was trying to tell me on that cool spring day. It was only after he passed, I remembered his words, and understood them for the first time. I had focused on the wrong part.

Your weapon is the word, but as long as you write with an open heart, you will always pull through. But you must believe in it.

I had closed my heart. I had never believed in it. After my father's funeral, I felt the stirring of those birds, their feathered heart beats rustling so strong inside, I thought they would break through my chest. I searched frantically for my old typewriter, only to find it gathering dust in some mould ridden box. I felt shame. Instead of tears, I poured out words. My words came back to me, like old friends who had waited patiently, who had once gathered together at the same cinema of the mind to sit together in the dark, like Ancient Greeks participating in the mysteries, had gathered around me once more to dream the same dream in unison. And I finally began to believe. But my words were not a weapon, they were the only medicine that could truly heal me.

I began to dream again. I stopped worrying about what people would think of me. I remembered how to laugh and not take everything so seriously. I started to listen to my spirit again. I did not give up my physical pursuits, but aligned them with the purpose of unifying my mind and body to bring a sense of awareness and self to those activities. It brought balance; I realised that life should change as frequently as you change, while always remaining balanced on an axis of belief. My belief in nature, and my belief in the alignment of self with its workings, brought back my childhood wonder. All I had to do was write.

I took advantage of the arrival of the digital age, excitedly; it helped bridge the gap between dreaming and doing. The immediacy of publishing my writings on blogging platforms brought me millions of hits. Had I become a writer? I still thought not, but I knew, now, that a person becomes a writer the moment they start writing, and cease to be a writer the moment they stop. From an existential perspective, this is exactly right. And if you can think existentially, you will see that this is exactly how it should be. If you live by this perspective, nobody can stop you from becoming what you want to be, except yourself, and you do not have to wait for the approval or acknowledgement of anyone.

You just make a decision to become and then you become. Two great American poets, Emily Dickinson and Charles Bukowski, became writers this way. Neither had any formal education in writing. They just began writing, and kept writing and eventually became recognised as great poets. This is not the point, however; the point is that they became writers by writing. Nobody could stop them. And they did not have to wait. What connected them, and all who pursue a relationship with words, is the nature of wonder. This curiosity is the link to human flourishing; it plays a foundational role in helping people grow, connect, and find meaning. It is the quality that prompts people to ask better questions, explore new ideas, and stay engaged with the world around them.

Curiosity shapes how we thrive, for when we are curious, we are more likely to reflect on our values, form deeper connections, and make choices that align with long-term fulfillment. We have the evidence from our children that curiosity contributes to physical and emotional resilience, while those who maintain a sense of wonder and a desire to learn are often better at handling setbacks. They do not shy away from difficulty. They explore it. That mindset supports mental health and creates room for growth, especially when navigating a rapidly changing world. If we continue to stay curious as adults, we will seek out new learning opportunities. We reflect more deeply, stay flexible, and keep evolving.

And when the act of wonderous reflection takes place in the mind, when we look at ourselves in the light of thought, we discover that our life is submersed in beauty. Behind us, as we go, all things can assume pleasing forms, as clouds do far off in a deep blue sky. Not only things familiar and reassuring, but even the tragic and terrible may fade as they take their place in the pictures of memory. The river bank we may have played by as a child, or the grasping weed at the waterside, the old house once alive now left to ruin, the foolish person we once were, however neglected in the passing, have a grace in the past, for it is past, and they are no more. Even the corpse of regret that has lain in the chambers of the heart can be added as a solemn ornament to our inner sanctum when looked back in retrospect and wonder.

So, it is with this wonder, I look back and reflect on my father in his garden; for somewhere within me, he is tending his garden still in the blossomed breeze. I look back at my own life, my regrets and my achievements all as one chain, one link forged upon the other, and the wonder I feel allows me to embrace all aspects of my experiences with solemnity, gratitude and grace. I remember my battered old typewriter who accompanied me on many a journey; I can still smell the ink from its ribbon, still hear its metallic clang, still feel its keys beneath my fingers. It fills me with joy for all I have experienced and all I have yet to experience.

And I believe the best is yet to come. That is the power, the gift and the nature of wonder.

Published 27 March, 2026

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