I knew this old lady named Ruth Lewis years ago and she was the most joyful person I’ve ever met. I never had a conversation with her where she wasn’t laughing. Well into her 80s and filled with a childlike delight.
Science does that for me. Fills me with delight. With wonder. I love that science is about seeking. And so it’s just as invested in exposing its errors as its triumphs. It’s concerned with everything.
It’s the perfect sibling for art: consumed with discovery.
When I was younger, it was important to me to know the answer. To have it. I have the answer! When I started writing stories, I finally got that wonder is more vital. Wouldn’t it be curious if? What happens when? I wonder.
That act of wonder is as close as I get to my spirit. I can feel it. Suspended in the question my mind articulates. Poses. Check out my spirit’s poses. We might be anything. Look at us. Extraordinary! Quarks and stardust and carbon and shit. Language and meaning and nothingness. Look at the thin layers of skin on us. The delicate arteries. The way our hearts flower and recede. Flower and recede. A metaphor for bees. Or sex. Or awakening.
All I’ve got now are my questions. Isn’t that what brought me to love? Wonder. Curiosity. Joy. The constantly unraveling self and its quest for … everything. The dog sprinting across the grass. Her legs lifted as though she were flying. Water beaded on your skin. The way light changes everything. Weeds yanking through pavement. We might be anything.
If you can’t ask the questions, how will you change?