The Unseen Wonder

There is a quiet humility in realizing how little we have truly beheld of the world. Though our eyes have opened countless mornings and wandered across familiar paths, much remains hidden from our hurried gaze. The soul, if it is to see, must learn again how to pause, how to kneel inwardly before the miracle of what simply is.

Each season arrives not merely with changes in air and sky, but with a secret language of its own. Spring does not return in sameness. It emerges each year with a fresh pulse, as if creation itself were remembering how to begin again. The green that blushes along the hedgerows or unfurls through the forest canopy is never quite the same hue it was the year before. It carries a subtle difference, as though the earth were trying to tell a new story through color.

To walk through woodlands with reverence is to recognize that no two leaves are the same, even on the same branch. The wind, too, holds its own variations—a sigh today, a hymn tomorrow, and sometimes a silence so deep it feels like a listening presence. And what of the rivers? They shape the land with ancient patience, yet the water that passes us by has never flowed in quite the same way before.

There are petals that have unfolded and fallen without ever being seen. Birds that have sung into the dusk with no ear to receive their offering. So much beauty exists quietly, asking nothing of us but the grace of our attention.

We often think we have seen things because we have named them. But naming is not the same as knowing. The oak is not merely "tree," nor the blackbird merely "bird." Each is a singular echo of the vast imagination of Being, expressing itself in form. And when we approach the world with wonder rather than assumption, the veil begins to lift.

There is a deeper seeing that is born from stillness. It cannot be hurried. It grows in the shadows of solitude, in the hush between words, in the places where we surrender the need to master and instead choose to marvel. The world is not lacking in miracles; it is only our noticing that has grown thin.

To live wisely is not to accumulate knowledge but to allow mystery to remain. It is to understand that the heart sees far more than the intellect can grasp. The soul does not seek to explain; it seeks to be touched.

Perhaps this is the invitation of each new day: to greet what is before us as if we have never seen it before. To meet a sunrise without memory, a face without expectation, a tree without the filter of past encounters. And in doing so, to awaken again to the unrepeatable presence of things.

Let us not imagine we have known the world because we have passed through it. Let us instead become students of its quiet wisdom, apprentices to its seasons, and lovers of its endless unfolding. For what is deepest is often most hidden. And what is most beautiful, we often overlook in our haste.

There is always more—more light waiting in the leaves, more music waiting in the silence, more tenderness waiting in each breath we have not yet taken with full awareness.

And so, we begin again.

I love You,
Alma