Finding Poetry in Ordinary Moments

There is a quiet kind of alchemy that exists in the world. Not the sort that turns lead into gold or conjures storms from spells, but a subtler, more intimate kind—one that transforms the ordinary into something luminous, simply by the way we look at it. This is the kind of magic born from attention, presence, and wonder.

The world is, by default, extraordinary. But the more we rush through it, the more it becomes invisible. Dishes pile up in the sink. Emails go unanswered. The kettle boils. The dog snores softly on the rug. The clouds roll by in slow procession. These are not events that demand our awe. And yet, if we allow ourselves to really see them—to pause and look without expectation—we might begin to notice the shimmer just beneath the surface.

This is not about denial or escapism. The mundane is not an illusion to be gilded over with false meaning. It is what it is—often repetitive, sometimes dull, frequently unremarkable. But buried in that sameness is something astonishing: a rhythm, a beauty, a kind of truth that only reveals itself to those who stay still long enough to notice.

Take, for example, a morning routine. How many times have you brushed your teeth without ever feeling the bristles? How often do you sip your coffee while scrolling through a screen, never tasting the bitterness or warmth? We rarely inhabit our moments fully. But when we do—even for a few breaths—those small acts become portals.

The philosopher Simone Weil once said, “Absolutely unmixed attention is prayer.” This is the essence of wonder. Not a grand, explosive awe, but a reverent stillness. A curiosity that rests gently on everything, even the most forgettable corners of life.

Consider the window beside your desk. Day after day, it frames the same tree, the same sky. But have you ever really watched that tree? The way its branches flex slightly in the wind, how the sunlight filters through its leaves at 10 a.m. versus 4 p.m.? There is an entire opera unfolding in that patch of space, and most of us never even glance.

Wonder isn't something we find. It's something we practice. It’s the radical choice to stay open, even when things seem boring or predictable. It’s the soft skill of re-seeing.

Children do this instinctively. A puddle is not just a puddle—it's a mirror to the sky, a miniature ocean, a doorway to another world. A cardboard box becomes a spaceship. A shadow becomes a friend. Somewhere along the way, many of us lose this ability, traded for efficiency and pragmatism. But it’s not gone. It just sleeps.

And it can be reawakened.

You don’t need to escape your life to find beauty. You don’t need to travel, or achieve, or perform. You only need to arrive—fully. Whether you're peeling potatoes, walking to the store, or folding laundry, there is a subtle invitation hidden in the moment. An invitation to witness. To feel. To see.

The poet Mary Oliver asked, “Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” Perhaps the answer is as simple as this: pay attention. Show up. Find the shimmer in the dust. Let the mundane surprise you.

Because it will—if you let it.

And in doing so, you’ll find that you don’t need to search for magic at all.

It’s been here all along.
Waiting.