I discovered a new word. I guess it's not really a real word. At least, not in the Merriam-Webster sense. However, the concept of sonder is something that has been on my mind for a long time and now I have a way to capture it in a pair of syllables. For me, sonder is looking through the front window of someone's house and seeing life: a man watching TV with a bowl of Vick's Popcorn on his chest, a family surrounding a small pile of cards on the table, a child wobbling around on nine month old feet. These things are all familiar to me, but, seen through the view of other people's windows, they seem new, they seem different, they seem profound. I think that photographs are also like windows into the lives of the people of the world. Just glimpses, literal freeze frames of life and all its incredible simplicity and complexity. So, looking at the world through a photo, I cannot help but be filled with a sense of sonder. God, that sounds silly to say. But, as a writer, I can't say that I have ever thought about photos in any other way. What I saw when I looked at the pictures below is what I wrote. No rewrites. No editing. These are my first thoughts, my first opinions, my initial sonder.
A Boy and his Bunny
In the pale light of a honest morning, nothing is hidden. Nothing lies unforgotten. Not the young boy as his bare feet trample through the patches of grass, catching on the blades' rough edges. Not the rabbit as the approaching sound of crunching, crushing footsteps compels it out of its hiding place in the thick bushes, away from the trickling light of the sun. Not the steady hands of the boy as they reach towards the rough tufts of brown hair, poised like softened needles around the rabbit's cuff. Not the twitching nose of the rabbit as it sways up and down along with the curious peeking of its head, taking in the sights and sounds of the forested landscape, not at all apprehensive of the encroaching hands. Not the silent and near invisible smile of the young boy as he holds the rabbit, his bunny, to his chest and feels its front paws press against his heart, trembling with the tiny joy of an embrace several years overdue.
Showering with Superman
Mud dripped off the side of his face and hit the ground beneath him in a rhythmic succession that matched the rising and falling of his chest and the quick ins and outs of his breath. 26.2 miles was enough to turn the very air a man breathes into his personal kryptonite. His cape, stained with brown clumps, clung to his back, imbued with the cohesiveness of the water that dyed the fabric blood red. He reached up with his hands to the red and yellow emblem on his chest, eyes closed but head rising slowly to face the sky. The steady stream of water cascaded from above and bursted upon contact, fragmenting like pieces of a bullet against impenetrable skin. His left hand reached up swiftly to wipe away the droplets of moisture falling from his bangs, unknowingly leaving an unmistakable curl of dark, wet hair pressed against his forehead that was flushed from an exertion of effort that one could not help but describe as superhuman.
Letting of Steam
As the snow came down in loose clumps upon their heads, the steam flitted upwards in thin, wispy ribbons. They wiggled their toes to fight off the encroaching numbness brought on by the cold. They wiped the sweat off of their foreheads, the warmth of their bodies in the scrum creating an atmospheric bubble of tropical proportions that rebelled against the frigid air. Knuckles crunched and arms are linked as the men, wearing their colored jerseys like national flags around their shoulders, are compressed into battle formation. Eyes, red from perspiration and warrior's spirit, lock onto the opponents' from across the scrum. A thin sliver of steam is plucked from the dense cloud above their heads as the ref pulls in a deep breath. The whistle blows. The war is on.
What Are You Looking At?
His eyes begged a question. I knew not which question or why he was asking it, but it was there. Burning with the flame of youthful indignation and dowsed with canisters of adolescent gasoline. The question swam in the depth of his eyes, forcing me and my camera to dive deep in order to seek an answer. His chin looked like it was on the edge of trembling, like a fist clenched with unquenchable rage. His anger was directed at me. The daggers of his eyes and the slow knotting of his eyebrows made me sure of that. And, although I was not the true source of his anger and my camera and I were merely the most convenient scapegoat for the boy, I could feel his deadly glare singeing the corners of my mind with its white heat. They say that the camera captures the soul, but all I had seemed to contain within the frame was a fire. A fire red with ire, green with will, gold with passion, orange with avarice, and white with the ingrained urge to crush whatever stood in front of him.
The Snowy Child
The leg next her canine companion was trembling with some innate energy. Not fear, of course. She had no reason to fear the sharp teeth or claws of the animal by her side. The girl and her dog shared a sense of magnetism that revitalized their spirits. They stood in the foot holes they had made hours before, when the sun had flirted with the horizon. Now, a thick layer of grey condensation hung over the sky, dropping sheet upon sheet of delicate flakes that, in the distance, appeared to be a dense billow of encroaching fog. Her knees began to knock and his paws began to pace in place. They had felt it in the oncoming storm, in its pillowy coats, its frozen precipitation, its ghostly presence. Something was coming in the storm, and the girl and her dog were poised to witness its grand entrance.
Make 'Em Laugh
Humor is overrated. People will laugh at anything now days. We live in the generation of the frat boy comedian, over-sized children passing off the observations of a drunken mind as comic genius. Humor used to be something about subtlety and finesse. Now, the loudest person in the room controls the microphone. Now, clowns are scary. Now, the obscene is the king of comedy. From behind the black circles of his goggles, the street comedian's eyes don't quite echo the goofy expression on his face. They are hard and have been hard far too long. All he has done in life and all he will strive to do is make people laugh. He'll tip his hat so low that he falls over on his face. He'll wrinkle his eyebrows and contort his features with nearly elastic dexterity. He'll juggle balls, swing pins, and even spit fire. All for the laughs. If only they would laugh. They laugh at the men on the TV, but not at him. Humor is overrated. He reaches out a hand behind the ear of the small girl in front of him, her eyes alive with curiosity and wonder as his hand returns with a shiny gold coin. As he flips the coin into the air and lets it delicately land inside the girl's open palm, she lets out a delighted squeal. The street comedian smiles behind the dark spheres of his eyes. Humor may be overrated, but laughter is not.
The Joy
Excitement had him floating three feet off the ground. His shoes, with half of the straps undone, looked as if they would never hit the ground. He could feel the world moving around him. He felt the wind whip by, tossing the folds of shirt behind him like a heroic cape. He saw the painted concrete steps pass beneath him in a string of near florescent color. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, the bottom. He heard the sharp crunch of gravel beneath the soles of his shoes as he hit the ground. A flying spray of the tiny rocks bit into his shins as he picked up speed once more. He passed the army of motor bikes that lined the walls painted liberty blue. Faces appeared in the frosted windows as spectators to his joyous running, their muted applause and cheering egging him to sprint faster. His heart pulsated and kept pace with the rhythm of the dull slaps of his rubber heels against the ground behind him. He felt like shouting at the top of his lungs, so that the sound of his voice would echo up the walls of the alley around him, up into Heaven where the happiness of this moment would be recorded forever. He wanted God and the angels to know, if they didn't already, that his father was home.
I have discover many things by looking absentmindedly through windows into other peoples' live and I hope you have too. Sonder (the idea, the concept, the definition, the practice) is a such wonderful thing and it makes being human a wonderful thing to be.
