Wonderful

A day at the Tierpark with an unlikely crowd.

The sun has somehow found its way back to me. The past two days have been brilliant, and I’ve let it soak all the way in. I want more. Always.

Intellectually, I can find the value in a rainy day. I know on a logical level that rain must fall and that it comes from clouds. Intellectualism be damned this time of year.

With one mostly free day before we both start a marathon of 16 weeks of German classes next week, Chris and I took the opportunity to get out for a few hours while the kids were at school. We decided on the Tierpark — Berlin’s east-side zoo, set on a sprawling former Prussian estate. We’ve never been without the kids, and we were excited to grab quick picnic fixings from the grocery store and head to the U Bahn. We have an annual membership, and expected excellent random-Thursday relaxation.

Imagine our surprise when, in our childfree sunshiney glory, we came up from the subway to an entry line that swirled through the plaza and wound down the block.

I remember getting the emails a few weeks back that they were offering free admission to anyone over 65 for the entire month of February. Lo and behold, the entire line--not just a majority, the entirety of the hundreds of people waiting for entry---were seniors. They were chatting animatedly, arranging their tickets, and waving over groups of friends.

Now, I love the Tierpark and hanging out with my husband on a beautiful spring day was exactly what I wanted to do, but I really didn’t want to wait in an hour-long line to get into the establishment. So we paused for a moment and considered our options. There was a little market across the street, certainly we could find another park to walk in, or we could head back towards our neighborhood. We figured we’d give due diligence at the second entrance up the street, finding to our delight that the crowd of seniors was much less dense.

We hopped in line and it was only a few minutes before we made it into the park. It was a bit of a mind bend. Usually we’re corralling our own kids and if there are crowds, they’re rowdy with youth. This was a completely different kind of atmosphere. There were older couples, walking side by side. Groups of friends waiting for another to mosey over. Very few people on phones, but quite a few with DSLR cameras. Every exhibit viewing area was crowded with people reading signs and searching for camouflaged animals.

It was delightful. A true day of joy.

At one point, I asked Chris if he had ever seen such a large crowd of seniors anywhere. I couldn’t think of an example--certainly not a public space like the Tierpark--and neither could he. There must have been thousands of Berlin’s retirees visiting today, taking advantage of a good deal to partake in the sheer joy of the sun and the springtime frolicking of the animals. It was fantastic. Heartwarming.

I’ve been noodling on what it means to wonder at the world. With the budding flowers and the returning birds, this is my primary season to marvel at the wonders around us. And I usually think about this through the lens of children--of modeling and making space for what it means to be observant of our surroundings. But it’s not a state reserved for childhood. Kids are good at finding wonder, yes, but anyone can engage with wonder. Those of us in the thick of raising kids — more often watching the world we grew up in crumble at our feet — might not be the most inclined to seek it out.

But the sun was out and the day was clear and the birds were singing and seniors were free at the Tierpark today. The parade of the wonderful--a word we toss around too easily--was really on display for me today. There were many things full of wonder, filling me with wonder, able to be wondered at--the word “wonderful” takes on a little more weight when I break it down and turn it around. It becomes that which truly fills my heart, my cup, my mind with the promise of hope.

Somehow, in our exploration of the Tierpark sans kids, we ended up finding an area of the park we haven’t explored before. Through the naked trees, we could see a walking path winding up a small hill, so we followed the crowd and climbed to the top of the Himalaya exhibit. There were vultures and snow leopards and mountain sheep, but the most incredible part was the view. The exhibit hike was deceptively well designed, piles of granite boulders casually strewn alongside the path, nooks and crannies with places to peek out over the spanning city. Like the rest of the Tierpark, the top was crowded with seniors out enjoying the sun. Chris and I leaned over a concrete wall designed to look like stacked flagstone and looked off into the distance, taking it all in.

It’s hard to believe that just on the early side of winter, things felt hopeless here. Things weren’t coming together the way we had hoped, and we were reaching the end of our fortitude and finances. The world was literally sliding into darkness, and despite my best intentions, it was hard to find anything particularly wonderful. Thanksgiving felt foreign, Christmas was a rollercoaster, and the New Year started with weeks of prying ourselves up before the sun to keep chugging along.

It’s been a long winter.

It’s no surprise that so many people with the opportunity took the chance to get out to the Tierpark today, the darkness is finally cracking. The sun is pushing the cold back. Wonder abounds. It is in the lines of joyous friends, the flowers poking up, the animals running happily outside after their own long, cold, darkness.

Wonder feeds hope. It pours in like light through crystal, splitting what seems white into a million dancing colors.

This hope keeps me going.