Wonder: A mix of surprise, awe and pleasure

One of the things that always strikes me when I’m doing a puzzle is how the colours change.

What appears to be a plain blue sky is probably pale near the horizon, gradually deepening until it becomes a rich sky blue above.

The same thing happens with trees. At first, all the foliage seems to blend into one mass of green. But as we get deeper into the puzzle, we begin to see the minute changes: yellows and olives giving way to emerald greens, dark shadows and touches of teal.

When the pieces are scattered across the table, we really have to adjust our eyes to the different tones. Where did all these colours come from?

Perhaps that is one of the quiet wonders of puzzling. It slows us down, gives us time to settle, and invites us to look again.

What is that?

Most of us associate wonder with children. A toddler can become completely absorbed in something an adult barely notices. They want to pick it up, turn it over, shake it and see what happens. Everything is new.

Give a toddler a tray puzzle and they will delight in the simplest discoveries. The piece turns around. This shape matches this space. This digger has really big wheels. The cow has a calf. The butterfly has colours on its wings.

Each discovery adds another small piece to their understanding of the world.

Adults are more likely to glance at the picture and think, “Yes, that’s a butterfly.”

The toddler looks at it as though nobody has ever seen a butterfly before.

Perhaps children don’t possess more wonder than adults. Perhaps they simply haven’t learned to hurry past it.

What if?

As children grow, wonder begins to change. They’ve learned enough about how the world fits together to start imagining how else it might work.

They notice that people aren’t all the same: they live in different places, eat different foods, wear different clothes and follow different customs. They discover wildlife they have never encountered and landscapes unlike their own.

Real life becomes more intriguing. And their imaginary world grows too. A tree can become a home. A forest can contain fairies. An ordinary backyard can become the scene of a great adventure.

Children begin testing ideas, boundaries and possibilities. What if I do this? Will I get into trouble? Let’s tempt fate, shall we?

Was that there all along?

By adulthood, much of life has become familiar.

We know that skies are blue, trees are green and water reflects light. We have seen beaches, birds, buildings and gardens so often that our minds recognise them without really examining them.

That is useful. We can’t stop in amazement every time we see a gum tree or we would never get anything done. When I was studying horticulture, I stopped to examine every second tree along the path. My kids would groan, “C’mon Dad.”

A puzzle asks us to look differently.

An area we casually labelled “sky” becomes dozens of changing blues. “Trees” become a surprising mixture of yellow, olive, emerald, teal and shadow. Shapes, lines and patterns that disappeared into the complete picture begin to emerge.

Small fragments that meant very little on their own gradually become part of something recognisable.

We haven’t discovered something that wasn’t there before. We’ve discovered how much was there that we didn’t really notice.

Wonder isn’t always about seeing something new. Sometimes it’s about seeing anew.

Do you remember?

Wonder can change again later in life. A familiar image may prompt someone to say, “I remember one of those.”

Perhaps it is an old car, a kitchen utensil, a garden, a holiday scene or something that recalls a childhood home.

For an older person, including someone living with dementia or in aged care, the image may open a doorway to experiences gathered over a lifetime.

A family member or carer might ask, “Did you have one?” or “Where was that?”

A memory may become a story, and the person sitting beside them might hear something they have never heard before. At other times, the pleasure may simply be in recognising the picture, placing a piece or enjoying a moment together.

There can be wonder in the memory itself, but also in everything that life contains: the places someone has been, the people they have known and the changes they have witnessed.

A familiar picture can remind us that every person carries a world within them.

Wonder changes, but it doesn’t leave us

As we grow, wonder takes different forms.

For a toddler, it asks: What is that?

For an older child: What if?

For an adult who has stopped long enough to look closely: Was that there all along?

And later in life: Do you remember?

Wonder begins with discovery, grows into possibility, returns through close attention and sometimes reappears through memory.

Perhaps we don’t lose our sense of wonder after all. Perhaps it simply waits for something to make us pause.

When the final piece falls into place, the picture is the same one we saw on the box. Yet we’ve noticed colours, details and stories we couldn’t see at first.

And before long, I’m wondering what we’ll tackle next.