We wake up each morning to a world we did not make.  There is so much here – around, above, below, inside, outside.  Even with the help of poets and scientists we can account for very little of it.  We are fascinated by this endless proliferation of sheer Is-ness – color and shape and texture and sound.
After awhile we get used to it and quit noticing.  We get narrowed down into something small and constricting.  Somewhere along the way this exponential expansion of awareness, this wide-eyed looking around, this sheer untaught delight in what is here, reverses itself:  the world contracts; we are reduced to a life of routine through which we sleepwalk.1

Eugene Peterson, Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places.