The Wild Art of Remembering Wonder
We keep searching for magic as if It exists somewhere else.
We chase it in distant places, grand experiences, and extraordinary moments—forgetting that we are surrounded by something extraordinary every single day.
Familiarity has a strange way of making miracles invisible.
It does not diminish their truth.
Only our ability to receive them.
Then I look at our wolf pups.
Creatures who would place themselves between danger and those they love without hesitation. Who bond deeply. Who remain fiercely devoted. Who remind me that loyalty is not a promise to be spoken, but a nature to be lived.
And I wonder why humans insist the wild is savage.
Because the wild keeps revealing itself as something far more mysterious.
The octopus dreams beneath the waves—entering states of rest and imagination in a world so different from our own, reminding us that consciousness wears many forms.
The otter carries a favorite stone for a lifetime, nestled in a tiny pocket woven into its own body—as if nature knew some treasures were meant to be carried close.
The dolphin moves through an ocean vast beyond our imagination, sensing what lies hidden beneath the surface.
Through frequencies and echoes, they perceive a world unseen by our eyes.
And yet, in all that endless water, they do not lose one another.
They know each other’s unique calls.
They carry names.
They call, and they come home.
The cat purrs at frequencies that ripple through its body like a healing song—vibrations that can support the mending of bone and remind us that even comfort has its own ancient intelligence.
The horse moves through the world with a knowing beyond our own, sensing what we often overlook.
They arrive on this earth already carrying a language we spend lifetimes trying to understand.
The hummingbird defies what should be possible, hovering between worlds with wings too fast for the eye to follow, carrying a kind of ancient joy in its tiny body.
The penguin crosses endless ice in search of the perfect pebble, carrying it back to the one it has chosen as a mate—a tiny offering of devotion in a world of snow and silence.
And when fire tears through a forest, flowers are the first to return.
Maybe magic never left.
Maybe it has been breathing beside us all along.
Maybe the wild was never something to conquer.
Maybe it was something we were meant to remember.
Because perhaps the question is not whether magic exists…
But how much of life’s magic do we walk past because we have become accustomed to miracles?
How much beauty do we overlook because we are searching for something bigger, louder, more extraordinary?
How many moments pass while we are waiting for the moment?
How often do we overlook the magic of the world around us…
The magic of each other.
The magic within ourselves.
We are only here for such a brief moment.
Perhaps the greatest wonder is not finding something extraordinary.
Perhaps it is remembering that we are already surrounded by it.
Ashe,
Your Wahine of the Sun
