An Iris in November
When I walk in search of wonder, it appears in the most unlikely places. If I come up dry, it means I'm not paying attention.
On the second day of the eleventh month of the second pandemic year, I rounded a nothing corner with my dog and came upon a flutter of white that l could have sworn was an iris. It rose from a patch of dead leaves like the living thing it could not be. After more than 50 years in Toronto, I know when iris blooms around here. Mid-May to early June, not the sullen weeks between pumpkins and Christmas lights.
I used to walk to accomplish one of two things: get fit or get somewhere. I parted crowds in a haste to make time. Then a dog joined the household, and he had other ideas. Mark this hydrant. Spray this tree. Tell that squirrel who’s boss. To a scent hound like Casey, every block teems with fascination. We don’t so much walk as meander from pause to pause. He sniffs, I look at wherever we find ourselves. Lovely things catch my eye in the most unlovely places, cleansing my mind of worry and regret. As Leonard Cohen chanted in his youth, “Magic is afoot.”
I walk for wonder now. Leashing up Casey, I challenge myself to find some small new marvel. If I come up dry, it means I’ve been playing with my phone instead of watching the day reveal itself. There are no boring places, only bored, tuned-out people.
That November morning in the days of masking and case counts, wonder appeared at the entrance of a parking garage where some whimsical soul had positioned a silk iris. What else could it possibly be? I brushed a petal with my fingertip. It quivered, real as my skin. There was no one to see me snap a photo of the iris—my iris, as if I’d conjured it with my attention.
Two years had passed since I boarded a plane, and yet for a few precious minutes rapture lifted me.
William James said when psychology was new, “The greatest weapon against stress is our ability to choose one thought over another.” By choosing the iris over the horrors in the news and the quiet devastation of Covid, I gave myself a mental vacation. Two years had passed since I boarded a plane, and yet for a few minutes rapture lifted me.
Encounters with transcendent beauty have profound effects, documented in a wealth of research. Your fight-or-flight response slows down. Your body produces more oxytocin, the “love hormone,” and less interleukin 6, which promotes inflammation. By weaving rapture into your life, you buffer yourself from depression, loneliness and anxiety. Aches and pains bother you less. All these findings underpin the new science of awe, the reverential amazement that opens both your senses and your mind to something greater than yourself.
There’s an easy way to practice awe. A15-minute stroll once a week promotes happiness and a sense of connection to others, according to a 2020 study of healthy older adults. You don’t have to burn it; you have only to look for something wondrous and capture your delight in a photo.
By weaving rapture into your life, you buffer yourself from depression, loneliness and anxiety.
My awe walk isn’t over when I unleash Casey and make myself a decaf espresso. To keep the glow alive, I post my photo on Facebook, along with the story it moves me to tell. Covid-weary friends cheered for the iris. Aldona, who’s a keen gardener, knew its name: the Immortality iris, which flowers in spring and fall. She didn’t mention winter (so much for immortality). I resolved to check in on my iris while time allowed. I brought my friend Smita to see it, and then I brought David. Their amazement affirmed and magnified my own.
On my last visit to the iris, I found its petals tinged with brown. They’d been supple once. Now they crackled to my touch. It was December 13, four weeks and three days since I first happened by. Nicely done, Immortality Iris. There are more things in heaven and earth than were dreamed of in my old philosophy.
Where do you find wonder? Got a discovery you’re keen to share? Hiking trails, museums, your own back yard…wherever and whatever, I’d love to know. Tell us about it in the comments.
P.S. I’m starting my first-ever chat for your photos. Please bear with me while I learn to do this. I can’t wait to see your wonders.
Amazing iris! The BioPark calls me through all the seasons to come stroll. It has become familiar as the public gardens of my childhood. Yet every visit there are changes. Two days ago, a yellow koi with netting on her back joined the others. The time before that, there was a fresh stone path to the waterfall. I have seen raccoons and porcupines in the wisteria and once a porcupine spine floating in the pond. They do not allow dogs, I guess because it would create social problems. It’s ok. My dogs live a block away with their own garden of wonders, although today it looks quite shabby. Kaija is digging a hole to China. It is now large enough for her to crouch fully inside.
The "new science of awe." Who knew! I'm going to start a 15-minute daily stroll practice. Great post, Rona!