The Practice of Wonder

I wasn't expecting a Michael Jackson movie to make me think about my blueberry bushes.

I was expecting the music. The dancing.The nostalgia of hearing songs I somehow know by heart despite not listening to them for years.

What I wasn't expecting was a throwaway line about creativity.

At one point, Michael is talking about songwriting and says something to the effect of:

"If I'm not there to receive these ideas, God might give them to Prince."

I laughed.

Then I spent the next twenty-four hours thinking about it.
Because that's exactly what ideas feel like.

Not owned.Received.

The next morning, I walked outside to check on the garden.

The blueberries are producing more fruit than we can eat. Every day there seems to be another handful waiting to be picked. The butterfly bush is covered in blooms. A rose that was tightly closed a few days ago has opened completely.

Nothing dramatic had happened overnight.
And yet everything was different.

That's the thing about gardens.
If you stop paying attention, it looks like nothing is happening.
Until suddenly it is.

A flower opens.
A berry ripens.
A seed you forgot you planted appears where there was only dirt.

I've been thinking about that a lot lately.
Not just in the garden.
In my own life.

For years I've collected ideas the way some people collect books.
Notebooks filled with half-finished thoughts.
Projects waiting for the right moment.
Concepts that felt important but never quite found their footing.

I told myself I'd come back to them when I had more time.

More clarity.
More certainty.

The mythical future where everything finally makes sense.
The problem is that life doesn't seem particularly interested in certainty.

It seems much more interested in participation.

Watching the movie, I was struck by how much of Michael Jackson's story wasn't about talent.
The talent was obvious.
What stood out was devotion.

The way he paid attention.
The way he followed an idea long enough to see what it wanted to become.
The willingness to keep creating after disappointment.
To keep showing up after success.
To remain fascinated.

Lately I've realized that's the quality I admire most in creative people.

Not genius.
Not confidence.
Fascination.

The willingness to stay curious long after everyone else has moved on.
The willingness to notice.

A few months ago, I started taking regular garden walks around our property.
Not because I had a grand plan.
Not because I was trying to become more creative.

Mostly because I wanted a reason to put my phone down and go outside.
What surprised me was how quickly I started seeing things I had missed.

A skink sunning itself on a rock.
A hawk calling from somewhere beyond the trees.
The first blueberry turning from green to blue.
A flower that only blooms for a day.

The world didn't suddenly become more interesting.
I became more attentive.

And attention, I've learned, has a strange way of changing everything

The best ideas rarely arrive when I'm sitting at my desk demanding answers.
They show up while I'm pulling weeds.
Walking the dogs.
Watering plants.
Driving down the road.
Watching a movie I almost didn't turn on.

They arrive sideways.
Like visitors.

And if Michael Jackson is right, maybe that's because ideas are less like possessions and more like opportunities.

Little invitations floating through the world looking for someone willing to notice them.
Someone willing to participate.

I think that's what stayed with me after the credits rolled.

Not the fame.
Not the records.
Not even the music.

The reminder that creativity is a relationship.

You have to show up for it.
You have to make space for it.
You have to be there when it knocks.

The same way you have to walk through the garden if you want to notice what's blooming.
The same way you have to look up if you want to see the hawk circling overhead.
The same way you have to pay attention if you want to catch the small things before they become obvious.

This week I've been thinking about all the ideas I've left sitting on the shelf waiting for a future version of myself.

The blog posts.
The videos.
The projects.
The dreams.

The things I've been convinced needed a better plan before they could begin.

Maybe they don't.
Maybe they just need participation.
Maybe they need the same thing a garden needs.

Attention.
Patience.
Consistency.
A willingness to show up before there's evidence that anything is growing.

The older I get, the less interested I am in having everything figured out.
And the more interested I am in remaining available.

Available to the conversation.
Available to the curiosity.
Available to the idea that arrives while picking blueberries.
Available to the possibility that the next step is already trying to find me.

Maybe that's what wonder really is.

Not amazement.
Not magic.

Attention.

And maybe the practice isn't finding wonder.
Maybe the practice is remembering to look.