Every morning that I lived in North Vancouver, I would walk barefoot on the grass. Even in the middle of frigid Canadian winters so cold that the frost made my toes burn with pain—but it was worth it.
There was a particular delight that I can only describe as a full body tingle, as if every cell in my body had just been embraced by a tiny cloud that lifted me up and made me a little lighter.
I regret that I only discovered this tiny joy in some of my final years living in that magical wonderland because all grass was the same: a little itchy and green.
Then one day, I stepped on that grass. Intermingled with moss, like a soft sponge hugging my foot. And suddenly, something I had walked across thousands of times became something entirely new.
It opened my mind to consider how many other ordinary pleasures I had overlooked simply because I thought I already knew them.
How often do we stop paying attention to the familiar? We see the same trees, walk the same streets, touch the same things, until somehow, we stop really experiencing them.
Our brains are remarkably efficient at filtering out what they consider familiar. It’s called habituation, and it helps us conserve attention for things that are new or potentially important.
While this makes sense for survival, it comes with the cost of experiencing the richness of being alive.
This is what Outgrowing the Matrix is all about: rediscovering all the hidden wonder already available to us, just waiting to be discovered.
Magnifying glasses out, y’all!
