Museum Marvels

I have determined that fighting to maintain our true and most radiantly wide-eyed, romantic, vulnerable, and naïve self is the most noble of battles we wage daily. To push back the callous apathy, the lull of our slumber that descends so subtly that we do not notice until we are so encroached upon by our own boredom that we are forced to hunt wonder like an elusive fox.

That ancient song, spilling into streets in clouds of spring seedlings, luminescing in tiny sea creatures, cycling through rivers and the watersheds of our collective spirit — it sweetly and wildly oscillates in piercing wavelengths.

Can I hear it?

Do I notice?

The mere thought that the Bow River travels across the country to spill itself into Hudson’s Bay or that other Southern Alberta rivers will sacrifice themselves to the Gulf was enough to make the rivers pool around my wondrous heart and empty themselves onto the plains of my cheeks.

Or that New Zealand glow worms, deep in undiscovered caves, would illumine the ceiling as the blinking Milky Way. Has anything more hopeful and igniting ever been told?

I imagine the most fearsome of enemies would be rendered immovable under such a glowing canopy of wonder. And yet — the wars rage on under the constellation-laden canopy above.

To fight for our ability to see — truly and wholly see — this is, again, our most pressing and indefatigable battle.