Wonder

Photo by Hana El Zohiry on Unsplash

Under the vast Serengeti sky, night falls like a navy velvet curtain. Overhead, a brilliant expanse of stars stretches wide, the Milky Way a luminous river burning with clarity. It feels infinite, immense, a sight that leaves me breathless with awe. This was a moment of the extraordinary, of wonder.

Wonder is a widening of the eyes and quickening of the pulse. It’s what I felt standing beneath the Serengeti sky, what compels me to travel, to seek, to experience. It is born from the unexpected, the mysterious, and the truly beautiful. I have been fortunate to encounter wonder throughout my life, sometimes in grand experiences, sometimes in the smallest of moments. Often, I find it when I board a plane, my wanderlust driven by a desire to chase wonder, to experience the world.

A safari in Tanzania, where wonder was not just fleeting but a constant presence, was a long-held dream, a moment I had imagined for years. The reality was more than I could have imagined! An elephant so close I could see their eyelashes and the grooved wrinkles of their grey skin as they strode by with barely a glance. Two leopards draped over a thick acacia branch, legs dangling, camouflaged in the heat of the day. Hearing a lion’s low rumble swell into a roar, echoing across the savanna. Just remembering sends chills up my spine in the very best way.

Yet, one of my most profound experiences on that trip had nothing to do with wildlife or wilderness. On our last day at Ngorongoro Crater, an intact caldera in the Eastern Great Rift Valley, I experienced wonder of a different kind. The crater floor, teeming with wildlife and diverse landscapes, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Our group lunched near a pond where hippos lazed, their massive bodies glistening in the sun. Stepping out of a concrete building, my hands still dripping from washing them, I was suddenly surrounded by a group of little girls, barely six or seven years old, dressed in school uniforms of white polos and blue plaid pinafores. One girl beamed up at me, eyes bright, and reached to touch my hand. I crouched, smiling, touching her hand in return. She traced a finger along the honeyed color of my arm, saying something in Swahili. Soon, all the girls were reaching out, touching my hands, my arms, the curls of my hair, their giggling ringing through the air until a stern headmistress barked an order and they scattered. That shared exchange of joy remains one of the most beautiful moments of my life.

Like the Serengeti, the Grand Canyon is a place where time itself feels vast and unending, where every step down its layered walls is a journey through time. The canyon itself is incomprehensibly vast, stretching endlessly, layered rock bathed in shifting hues of red, gold, and violet. Standing at the South Rim, I was humbled, awed. I felt both small and connected to the grand scale of the Earth, moved by the raw power of nature and the weight of time.

Bright Angel Trail winds nine miles down to the Colorado River, an elevation drop of 4,380 feet. The canyon reveals itself slowly, each stratum a chapter of Earth’s history, where time is measured in millennia, not years. The immense rock walls shifted in color as the sun moved overhead, and below, the river carved on as it had for millions of years. Halfway down is Indian Garden, a green oasis where cottonwood trees guard a clear, cool stream.

Hiking down, I was stopped by a teenage boy, pointing excitedly. Perched regally on a sun-warmed rock sat a California condor, its large size breathtaking. Its glossy black plumage, hooked beak, and vivid red-orange head gave it a prehistoric majesty. I felt as though I had been given a rare glimpse into something special—a species once on the brink of extinction, now thriving again in the Grand Canyon.

But wonder isn’t confined to the natural world. Humanity, too, has left behind marvels that inspire awe. Certainly, I felt it during a twilight tour of the Roman Colosseum. Standing before its towering facade, I felt history pressing in from every direction. As the sun dipped, the amphitheater’s weathered stone was bathed in golden light, and echoes of gladiatorial combat seemed to whisper through the air. I imagined spectators pushing through the stadium’s vomitorium, the arched passageways designed for the efficient movement of crowds—a fitting term for the rush of people funneling in and out.

It’s easy to find wonder in the grand, but what if it’s also hidden in plain sight? Perhaps wonder isn’t only about what we experience but how we experience it. Instead of waiting for the extraordinary, what if I were to see the remarkable in the ordinary? In the quiet of a morning walk when the air feels bright with promise. In the warmth of sunlight streaming through a window. In the passionate song of a cardinal. These small moments remind me of life’s beauty and urge me to stop, look, and listen.

Noticing the extraordinary in the ordinary reshapes my world, making it feel richer, deeper, more alive. Wonder isn’t just something waiting for me out at the edge of the world but here, in the rhythm of my life. It is in the quiet and the loud, the fleeting and the enduring, the familiar and the new. I have spent my life chasing wonder, only to find it was always here, waiting.