a childlikeness that can see the sheer wonder of the staggering strangeness of the ordinary.

Nathaniel: Seth knows no fear, no pain, no hunger, he hears music in the sunrise. But he'd give it all up, he loves you that much.
Maggie: I don't understand.
- city of angels
I love the sunrise and I not such a big fan of sunsets. I can hear the music in the sunrise and I can smell its scent too. The music sounds a bit wind chime-y and the scent is very clean. Its not because of the film "City of Angels" because honestly I haven't watched the film yet. I didn't know that that dialogue was in the film either, Ava just told me about it when I confessed to her that I indeed hear and smell the sunrise. I told Ate Nini about this too and she has this ability as well. I think those people who hear and smell and see the unseen are those people who are deeply acquainted with their souls.

Why am I blogging about this unusual ability? Hmm, well because the reason why I love the sunrise is because to me it is the SONrise. Its like Him shining His face upon me. It warms my soul, there's room to breathe.

..how much happier you would be if you only knew that these people cared nothing about you! How much larger your life would be if your self could become smaller in it; if you could really look at other men with common curiosity and pleasure; if you could see them walking as they are in their sunny selfishness and their virile indifference! You would begin to be interested in them, because they were not interested in you. You would break out of this tiny and tawdry theatre in which your own little plot is always being played, and you would find yourself under a freer sky, in a street full of splendid strangers.”*

..his elementary wonder, however, is not a mere fancy derived from the fairy tales; on the contrary, all the fire of the fairy tales is derived from this. Just as we all like love tales because there is an instinct of sex, we all like astonishing tales because they touch the nerve of the ancient instinct of astonishment. This is proved by the fact that when we are very young children we do not need fairy tales: we only need tales. Mere life is interesting enough. A child of seven is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door and saw a dragon. But a child of three is excited by being told that Tommy opened a door. Boys like romantic tales; but babies like realistic tales—because they find them romantic. In fact, a baby is about the only person, I should think, to whom a modern realistic novel could be read without boring him. This proves that even nursery tales only echo an almost pre-natal leap of interest and amazement. These tales say that apples were golden only to refresh the forgotten moment when we found that they were green. They make rivers run with wine only to make us remember, for one wild moment, that they run with water...*

The point is that Christ frees us from self-preoccupation and gives us yes, only very gradually-- a childlikeness that can see the sheer wonder of the staggering strangeness of the ordinary. Chesterton said that this discovery for him was captured in a riddle: "What did the first frog say?" Answer: "Oh Lord how you have made me jump!". In other places he said that he came to the point where what amazed him was not the strangeness of people's noses but that they have noses in the first place. In becoming more childlike and more able to see the glory in the wonder of the ordinary and the routine, he points out that we are more becoming like God. - John Piper

...It is supposed that if a thing goes on repeating itself it is probably dead; a piece of clockwork. People feel that if the universe was personal it would vary; if the sun were alive it would dance. This is a fallacy even in relation to known fact. For the variation in human affairs is generally brought into them, not by life, but by death; by the dying down or breaking off of their strength or desire. A man varies his movements because of some slight element of failure or fatigue. He gets into an omnibus because he is tired of walking; or he walks because he is tired of sitting still. But if his life and joy were so gigantic that he never tired of going to Islington, he might go to Islington as regularly as the Thames goes to Sheerness. The very speed and ecstacy of his life would have the stillness of death. The sun rises every morning. I do not rise every morning; but the variation is due not to my activity, but to my inaction. Now, to put the matter in a popular phrase, it might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.*

* Orthodoxy by Gilbert K. Chesterton
I will end with this beautiful poem by Lu Dube.

The sun was just coming up
As I walked on down the road
Then I stood there in the stillness
To watch its glory unfold

Matthew 5:8 (New International Version)

8Blessed are the pure in heart,
for they will see God.

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