Francesco Dimitri - That Sense Of Wonder : how to capture the miracles of everyday life.

AN ANIMA BOOK

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All of us experience a sense of wonder at some point in our lives. Perhaps you felt it when you experienced your first kiss; when you grasped the perfectly balanced beauty of an equation; or when you first saw the rose windows of Chartres Cathedral? Whatever the circumstance that triggered the feeling, you were left speechless by this extraordinary world of ours. We may speak different languages, cling to different ideas about politics, religion and love but a longing for wonder connects us all through space and time.

Wonder is the impulse behind scientific and philosophical inquiry, artistic creativity and spiritual yearning. It is the most fruitful human sense: firing our curiosity; inspiring us to hope and to dream. But our sense of wonder that feeling we had as children seeing the Milky Way for the first time gets used up. Faced with the practical demands of adulthood, we trade a sense of wonder for a sense of reality, which all too often brings anxiety and unhappiness in its wake.

By exploring the nature of wonder in many areas of human experience, from the natural world to the spirit world, from science to storytelling, Francesco Dimitri reveals how we can reclaim our sense of wonder not to become children again, but to become happier and more fulfilled adults, better equipped to face the challenges of modern life.

For Paola.
It is kind of a trilogy, isnt it?

I remember when my older brothers told me that Father Christmas was real. I cant be sure whether it is an actual memory or a patchwork of truth and fiction I conjured up later, but the mental picture is there, crystal clear. I was sitting on a bed under a huge Duran Duran poster, my legs dangling a good distance from the floor. Though it must have been late autumn, the day was warm. My two brothers were standing right in front of me and I was craning my neck to be sure I took in their every word. I looked up at them. You would have done the same: they wore the coolest sunglasses, listened to the best music and hung out with the smartest kids in town; and yet they still took time off from their busy schedules to kick a football with me.

He has a big belly, said Gigi.

Like dads? I asked. My father was still in perfect health and I thought that would never change.

Bigger! replied Gigi, air-drawing a seriously prodigious belly with an expansive circular movement of his arms.

Arcangelo added, He needs all that fat to keep warm. He lives at the North Pole, you know. With penguins.

I so wanted to believe. But due diligence was required here, and I probed further: And hes the one who brings us presents at Christmas? Are you sure about that?

Yes, thats right.

To all children? Across the whole world?

Yup.

He goes around the world in one night ?

He travels on a sledge, said Gigi, as if that settled the matter.

I looked at the sunny day outside, and doubts began to creep into my mind. Sledges ran on snow, I knew that much. But I also knew we didnt see a lot of snow in southern Italy. No, wait, we didnt see any snow. My Christmas presents were at risk.

Arcangelo seemed to detect my concern. Its a flying sledge, he explained. It doesnt need any snow.

But hows that possible?

Because it flies.

Yes, but how?

It flies by magic, said Gigi.

And that settled the matter; magic made sense to me back then, as it still does, albeit in a different fashion.

That was the first Christmas I can remember. On Christmas Eve, I left out biscuits and a glass of milk for Father Christmas, then lay awake for hours, tossing and turning under the covers. I awoke the next morning at six oclock, leaped out of bed, roused the other members of my family and dashed to the Christmas tree, where, sure enough, presents had appeared, the glass had been emptied and the biscuits had been eaten, only crumbs remaining.

I dont remember what I got. But I remember very clearly the crumbs and the empty glass.

Presents were only presents, only things , and the novelty of things wears off quickly. But the empty glass and the crumbs they were something more . They proved that Father Christmas had actually flown across the sky and slid down my chimney. The crumbs and the glass they were magic .

It might be tempting to explain childrens excitement at the presents Father Christmas brings as the greed of spoiled brats. That is true, in part. There is another truth, and this is the one that matters. Children are excited because Father Christmas comes from a world of magic. The stuff they get for their birthday is not remotely as exciting: they know where it comes from, and it is not from a magic man on a flying sledge. The story of Father Christmas is a lot more than a white lie: it is a different sort of truth, a sprinkle of fairy dust that turns plastic dolls into talismans and teddy bears into totems. In short, into objects of wonder.

Time went by. The Eighties marched on with their madness of inglorious politics, horror films and synth music, and at some point the harsh truth sank in: it was Mum and Dad who bought and brought me the presents; there was no magic involved, only a cold exchange of cash for goods. I dont remember when or how I learned that this was the case, perhaps because the discovery caused me such disappointment. The merciless light of reason had broken the spell, and Christmas would never be the same again.

Dont get me wrong, I continued to like Christmas, and I still do. I enjoy the warmth, the coming together of family and friends, even with the seasonal feuds and fights and cutting remarks fuelled by drink. Although I grumble and whine, as busy adults are required to do, I still have a good time. And I still get presents.

But they are never quite as good as the ones I received as a child. How could they be? They dont come down the chimney any more. I am happy to be a functioning adult and I would never want to be a child again, but when I am feeling a bit down, when the going is getting tough on a cold night in February, I miss the crumbs and the empty glass.

Sometimes, Ill admit, I miss Father Christmas.

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All of us experience a sense of wonder at some point in our lives. Perhaps you felt it when you gave your first kiss; when you grasped the perfectly balanced beauty of an equation; when you glimpsed the divine in the rose windows of Chartres Cathedral; when you poured your soul into a painting; when you surprised yourself by taking part in an orgy; or was it when you went sky-diving and then drummed until dawn? Whatever the circumstance that triggered the feeling, you were left speechless by this extraordinary world of ours. We speak different languages, cling to different ideas about politics and spirituality, even different notions of love, but a longing for wonder connects us all through space and time: the cabbie who slows down at night to look at the skyline over the Thames; the sage working towards his next reincarnation; the atheist sociologist. Amaze me , we ask of magicians, artists and writers. Make me wonder, make me wise , we ask of scientists, philosophers and gods. To survive is not enough, said Roga Danar in a memorable episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation . To simply exist is not enough. Our survival instinct might keep us going, but we need a sense of wonder to be fully alive. Your sense of wonder is the most powerful fuel you have.