Quick note:
It was brought to my attention that something was wrong with yesterday’s podcast episode — I uploaded the raw recording instead of the finished media. Apologies to anyone who had to endure that nonsense. Obviously still ironing out the workflow issues…
This is the fourth post from The Nooner, a (very short) daily newsletter slash podcast that has its very own section within Dispatches from Inner Space.
To see the first post, which doubles as an explainer, click here.
It’s not ice’s fault if I fail to be amazed.
We have an old, basic fridge. There’s no water dispenser, and no ice maker. I rarely use ice for anything, but my wife enjoys an iced beverage now and again, so we have a couple of ice trays.
Earlier today, I took one out and gently twisted it to crack the grid. While I watched the cloudy, uneven shapes splinter and pop, the phenomenon of ice suddenly amazed me.
Why is it that understanding a thing seems so often to drain the awe out of it?
As though knowing how and why something works makes it less worthy of our close attention.
As though attention’s only purpose was to solve problems and “figure things out.”
But if that was true, there wouldn’t be any art. Appreciation of beauty doesn’t come free. It costs attention -- at least as much as problem-solving, and maybe more.
Problems are finite, beauty is not.
Once I’ve learned how ice works -- how water molecules bind into crystals as they slow down -- that’s it. I don’t need to spend any more attention to figure out how and why water freezes.
But at any time I can hold it in my hands, I can look closely at the singular structures of those crystals, and I can feel and see the way the outer layers melt under the warmth of my skin, transforming a rough and cloudy cube into a natural gem of exquisite and shimmering beauty.
If I’m willing to spend my attention on it, I can be amazed by ice.
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