It’s been a little strange. Lately I’ve been having flashes of wonder. I’ll be reading a book, or just pondering my usual random stuff and it’ll trigger a memory of vivid emotions experienced in the past, usually in response to something I read. For example, just last night I was listening to an audio book when they mentioned the name of a region in the world and the translation of its name. I was suddenly struck by images of a dense, green, misty forest and an underlying feeling of mystery and…wonder. Of excitement and adventure.
What bothers me is that those memories seem to be rather old. I remember experiencing those feelings when I first read Terry Brooks’ “The Sword of Shannara” or Tolkien’s “Fellowship of the Ring.” I remember having those feelings listening to Enya’s “The Longships” or Thomas bergersen’s “Merchant Prince.” I recall the thrill of following Luke Skywalker through the wretched hive of Mos Eisley, through the corridors of the Death Star, or down the trench in an X-wing.
Most of these memories are old. That distresses me.
Am I growing too old, too experienced, too jaded to experience true wonder anymore? Am I doomed to experience it second hand through my own memories? Is this a reason why I struggle so much with writing? Am I running out of imagination to fire?
I sure hope not! If anything I need wonder and imagination more than ever, even if I’m not actively trying to be a writer. Imagination, if could be argued, is at the core of life–how can we make our life better if we can’t imagine how it could be? Wonder is perhaps less essential, but it still adds spice and magic to life, and helps keep us humble–perhaps even young.
But then perhaps I’m thinking too much. If I still feel a sense of wonder, even if it’s second-hand, via memories, is that really so bad? Is it not still wonder? Or perhaps it’s the feeling of wonder sparking the memory, and not the other way around. Maybe I need to stop worrying and just enjoy what comes.