How to Notice Everyday Magic Even in Busy Times.
Wake-Up Call #47
W.B. Yeats wrote:
The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper...
I’ve been swirling a bit lately.
Not in a stuck way, or necessarily even in a bad way.
But, in a million-plates-in-the-air way. A million-decisions-that-need-to-be-made way. A million changes that have to happen way. A million things on my mind way. Many of which lie outside my control.
A disquieting groundlessness that I’m normally quite good at breathing through, has consumed more of my awareness than I’d like.
Some days, I can almost feel the joy blinders being strapped on. Like, this isn’t meant for you. At least, not now.
Then, there’s the moral overlay.
A voice of inner condemnation. Who are you to seek magic when so much else matters? When there is work to be done? Problems to be solved? Plans to be made? Futures to be built?
Then, comes the response, “who are you not to?”
Maybe that’s exactly what gets us through the hard things.
Yeats’ words remind me of a hopeful truth. One my dear friend, Cyndie Spiegel shared in her wonderful book, Microjoys.
Even in our most challenging moments, personally and collectively, we can open to the tiniest moments of joy. Of magic. We don’t have to manufacture it, just see it. Allow it in. Let our senses grow sharper to it.
We can notice it in a passing smile, an unexpected kindness, the melancholy chorus from Beck’s Morning Phase, the way the sunlight hits the swirling mist rising off your coffee, the warm palm of someone who loves you passing across your back, a gentle breeze on your face on a surprisingly warm winter day.
I find much of this magic in the mountains these days. Nature sharpens my senses to it, then delivers me into it.
But, you don’t need to hike in the hills to experience it. That was Yeats’ point. No matter where you are, it’s already there.
Often, during my 30 year tenure in NYC, I’d sit in a cafe, writing. Maybe in a good place (emotionally), or not. I’d pause, look around, and observe the humanity. The conversations. The aromas. The vibe.
How many moments were unfolding all around me?
Love finding its footing?
Deals being made?
Careers being seeded?
Ideas being whisked into existence?
Creative acts taking form?
Conversations deepening lifelong friendship?
Moments of loss or hardship met with kindness, caffeine, and maybe a nice cheese danish?
The smile on a patron’s face when the barista remembers her “usual?”
Magic. All of it. When we open to it. And realize…
Magic lies not just in the big things, but also the countless, seemingly innocuous moments that populate 99% of our days.
The world is full of magic, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.
Maybe it’s time to stop waiting, and take out the sharpener.
With a whole lotta love & gratitude,
Jonathan
Wake-Up Call #47 | Sharpen Your Magical Senses
This is not about ignoring the reality of the world around you, or whatever you may be moving through or grappling with.
It’s about acknowledging the potential for “yes, and.”
It’s about not excluding the potential for even fleeting experiences of goodness to meet you along whatever road is yours to travel at this moment.
It starts with a simple exercise.
Once a day, pause. Put down your device. Close your notebook (computer, or paper). Just. Stop. Doing. And. Be.
Look around you. What do you see? What do you hear? What do you smell? What do you feel? What’s new? Unexpected? Juicy? Delightful? Interesting? Calming? Arresting, even?
Now turn your noticing inward. What do you think (I mean, beyond, “this is dumb, can I just get back to drinking my coffee?”). What do you feel?
Give it a few minutes. We’re often so detached from our noticing, sensory experience, it takes a beat for it to come back online. Give yourself some grace. And, space.
All these noticings, they’re not just happening around us. They’re happening within us. Through us. To us. This is the magic. Not just the good things. But the very fact that we’re available to notice them.
As always, explore a bit. Think on it. Walk with it. And, if you’re inclined, share your thoughts and experiences in the comments.
This week on the Good Life Project® Podcast.
I thought it’d be fun (and hopefully valuable) to share the conversations we host, twice a week, on the Good Life Project podcast.
This week, I spoke with…
Google executive turned neuroscientist, Anne-Laure Le Cunff, about the power of living life as a series of tiny experiments.
Acclaimed chronic pain therapist, Nicole Sachs, about a stunningly-powerful and accessible approach to escaping the grips of chronic pain.
There was something peaceful about reading this on a Sunday while chilling poolside. It felt like a slow soulful Sunday. Thank you for writing 🙏🏽
I tuck my phone away as I wait for my friend. These content-hungry infants—I let it wail in the depths of my bag.
The world doesn’t wait for us to notice it, but it does keep offering itself, over & over.
A man steps out of a café, coffee cup in hand. He stands still for a second—just long enough for the steam to catch the morning light, curling like a whispered thought. He lifts the cup, closes his eyes as he sips. For a moment, I consider that this could be the best coffee of his life. Or the worst. Either way, he commits to the moment like a man with nothing left to lose.
Across the street, a child crouches, tracing something in a crack in the pavement. Their mother tugs at their sleeve, but the child lingers, fingers pressed to the ground like they’re receiving secret instructions from the underworld. A beetle, maybe. Or a map. Or a portal. The mother sighs, already moving forward. The child hesitates—one last second—before stepping through time & space (or maybe just onto the curb).
A pigeon lands nearby, dragging something metallic in its beak. A paperclip. No, a key. Definitely a key. I feel, with complete certainty, that it unlocks something important. A forgotten storage locker filled with love letters? A drawer where someone’s last good idea has been trapped? The pigeon knows, but it isn’t telling. It gives me a single, knowing look before waddling away, as if to say, You had your chance.
A breeze moves through the trees. A single leaf detaches—not falling, but floating, as if it has its own agenda. It twirls midair, dramatic, before landing gently in the gutter. A perfect dismount. I applaud internally. Somewhere, a magpie files this moment away for later analysis.
What do I feel?
Not epiphany. Not revelation. Just here. Just the quiet wonder of a world that keeps happening, whether we pay attention or not. But when we do—when we really do—we start to suspect that the world might be playing with us. How can we resist such an invitation?