I know nothing about octopuses; although I just learned it is not octopi – who knew?
Another interesting fact is that I’ve been carrying around a horoscope I clipped from a newspaper. I don’t know how long I’ve had it—probably less than a year—but I’ve kept it tucked in my purse because it made me smile. It reads:
“Octopuses have three hearts, each with a different function. Every one of their eight limbs contains a mini-brain, giving them nine in total. Is there any doubt, then, that they are the patron creature for you Pisceans?…”
Now you can pooh-pooh astrology if you want; the point isn’t the horoscope but the feeling it sparked. Something about it delighted me. It woke up a tiny spark of wonder—like the soft tap of Spirit saying, See? There’s more magic here than you remember.
In Atlas of the Heart, Brené Brown reminds us, “Awe and wonder are essential to the human experience. Both awe-inspiring events and experiences that leave us filled with wonder often make us feel small compared to our expansive universe. Small, but connected to each other and to the largeness itself.”
Life is interesting. As children, we swim in awe and wonder like fish in water. Our whole lives are one big “Wow!” The world is enormous and surprising. But somewhere along the way—between deadlines, responsibilities, appointments, and trying to appear like we have it all together—many of us slowly lose that shimmer. We trade wonder for routine. We replace awe with efficiency. Yes, every now and then something startles us back into amazement, but mostly we function from a place of “been there, done that.”
It has taken me time, intention, and a gentle softening to find my way back to looking with the eyes of a child. Now I notice things that used to slide right past me.
I’ve been alive 26,936 days. That’s 26,936 sunrises and sunsets. Granted, I live in Washington where we don’t always see them—but they happen whether we notice or not. And I wonder: How many of them did I miss simply because I didn’t stop long enough to look?
I have a friend who goes outside on her patio every single morning specifically to greet the sunrise. She treats it like a sacred appointment. Something about that devotion inspires me.
These may seem like little things, but they are FREE gifts from the Divine. No subscription. No password. No membership required. Just grace—offered new every morning.
Now I pause to watch deer grazing in the yard, or a squirrel streak across the fence carrying… well, something important to him. I notice the miracle that’s woven into the ordinary. These gifts don’t care how old we are, what we believe, or what mistakes we’ve made. They simply ask us to pay attention.
And in the grand scheme of things, does it really matter how many Facebook friends we have? Or how well our favorite team is doing? Isn’t it far more nourishing to play shuffleboard bowling (yes, it’s a thing—I’ve witnessed it!) with the friends standing right in front of you? To wander through town in search of the best ice cream? To let yourself play again?
Because here’s what I’m learning:
When I was a kid, I couldn’t wait to grow up.
And now—after all these days, all these sunrises, all these missed and rediscovered moments—I’m learning to be a kid all over again.
To wonder.
To notice.
To laugh.
To be delighted for no reason at all.
To remember that the Divine hides in plain sight.
Maybe that’s the real wisdom of the octopus: nine brains, three hearts, and zero hesitation when it comes to exploring life’s mysteries.
If they can manage that, surely I can manage one more sunrise.
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