Simply. Delight.

“We overlook so much delight because it costs us nothing but our attention.”—Anonymous

Our English word, delight, is derived from the Latin, delectare: To Charm. We can take delight in something; give the gift of delight; be delighted about or with something or someone.

Though Webster’s defines delight as “taking great pleasure in; joy; rapture” my first instinct tells me this specific definition overstates the actual feeling I experience in my body when delighted about something.

To me, delight is significantly more subtle than “rapture.” In my mind, the latter evokes images of damsels sinking into passionate repose on a “fainting couch;” or a state in which eyes are elevated to the heavens, overcome with amazed emotion; or a loss of bodily agency during a moment defined by an extremity of joy (the Latin, in extremus, or utmost).

“Delight” is best employed, in my mind, when referencing small wonders and everyday beauties often not noticed at all in our busy, active lives. I take delight in commonplace things and events I manage to actually stop and notice, knowing full well that the thing or sound or gift occurs semi-regularly, yet is typically buried under lists, chores, and life in general.

I return to the Latin: To Charm. This gentle, succinct, concept summarizes my core’s resonance; a ringing tied to the word “delight.”

For instance; currently, my state is experiencing a drought. When the skies opened last week and we were graced with a rare rain shower, I was “charmed” into walking outside on our deck, removing my glasses, and tipping my face up to the gray sky, sipping the delight I took in a simple meteorological event.

Most mornings in the summer, I awaken to a cacophony of birdsong. I often find myself stopping to listen to the sheer smile-worthy discussions among so many different species of birds shaking their feathers and stretching their wings in the early dawn.

I walk in our woods and see a mushroom that wasn’t there the day before; or the frond of a fern “unspooling” its delicate, pale green leaves for the first time this year; or a rhododendron dropping its sticky blossoms in the leaf litter after being fertilized.

These small (and large) wonders — tiny glimmers of the living world I inhabit — are what strike my senses and sound delight in my soul. To me, it is a quiet, personal, tone in my bones, triggered by noticing what is around me all the time, yet too often taken for granted or overlooked. A reason to stop listening to my audiobook while walking; to turn off the phone and damp down the “noise” in my life; to heighten my capacity to observe, hear, touch, and discover the charm in the ordinary — the gifts in the everyday — the delight in the small miracles all around us.

Delight can be a drug to which one might become addicted: A feeling that, when stimulated to quietly vibrate at your core, you want to find more frequently, with more consistency. It whispers everywhere, tacitly awaiting notice. The small sparkles and glimmerings of the natural world we share with so much that is extraordinary.

In what do you find delight? What charms your bones? What makes you smile inwardly or feel like a kid, newly discovering the world for the first time? I’d love to hear your thoughts.