In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.

Hear, O children of wisdom, the voice of the great philosopher Aristotle, who spoke as one who drank deeply from the well of truth: “In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.” These words, simple and shining, were not uttered idly, but born from a life spent gazing at the world with unwearied eyes. For Aristotle, the fields and forests, the rivers and skies, the smallest insect and the mightiest constellation—all bore within them the imprint of wonder, a whisper of the eternal. He saw that to live wisely was not merely to rule or to reason, but to marvel at the miracle that life itself is.

The marvelous, as he taught, is not hidden only in grand spectacles. It is present in the flight of the sparrow, the curve of a seashell, the rising of the sun each morning. To the hurried or the hardened heart, these pass unnoticed. But to one who pauses, who bends close, who contemplates with reverence, the ordinary is transfigured. A leaf becomes a library of veins, carrying the breath of life. A drop of water reveals the cycle of rivers and clouds. The very soil beneath the feet is made of the dust of ancient stars. All is connected; all is woven into a tapestry whose design stirs awe in the attentive soul.

Think, for example, upon the tale of Isaac Newton beneath the apple tree. When the fruit fell, most would have seen only the end of a branch’s labor. But Newton beheld the marvelous: he saw in that simple fall the law that binds the moon to the earth and the planets to the sun. From one humble apple came the unveiling of celestial order. This is the lesson of Aristotle’s words—that nature is filled with signs, and that wonder awakens wisdom.

Aristotle himself was no idle dreamer. He walked the shores of the Aegean, collecting shells, observing creatures, recording the habits of fish, birds, and beasts. Where others saw mere animals, he saw patterns, hierarchies, and mysteries pointing toward the unity of life. In the buzzing of bees, he discerned community; in the form of a seed, he saw the blueprint of growth; in the stars, he read the geometry of eternity. To him, nature was a book written by the divine hand, a scripture that spoke through roots and wings, through fire and stone.

And what lesson, O listeners, does this bear for us today? It is this: do not walk through the world blind. Do not let habit steal from you the radiance of the ordinary. Pause, look closer, marvel. The screen, the machine, the city’s din—these will try to dull your vision. But if you let your gaze rest upon a single flower, or the laughter of a child, or the stars blazing beyond measure, you will hear again the echo of Aristotle’s wisdom: that all of nature conceals a hidden wonder waiting to be unveiled.

For when we forget the marvelous, we forget ourselves. We treat the earth as mere matter, to be consumed and discarded, rather than as a mother whose every breath sustains us. We walk past beauty, numb and restless, and wonder why our hearts grow weary. But when we remember to marvel, gratitude awakens, and with gratitude, reverence. Reverence leads to care, and care to harmony. Thus the key to a good life is not wealth, nor conquest, nor endless striving, but the ability to behold the marvelous in all things.

Practical is this counsel: each day, set aside a moment to marvel. Watch the dawn. Listen to the rain. Hold a stone in your hand and think of the ages it has endured. Look into the eyes of a friend and see the miracle of thought, of memory, of spirit alive within them. Let no day pass without wonder, for wonder is the fountain of wisdom, and wisdom is the guardian of the soul.

Thus, O seekers, remember Aristotle’s teaching: “In all things of nature there is something of the marvelous.” Walk with open eyes and awakened heart, and the world will become your temple, the leaf your scripture, the wind your song. And in marveling at creation, you will find your place within it—not as conqueror, but as participant in its eternal mystery.