My mind wanders, and sometimes I just follow behind it, seeing where it goes.

Driving to the gym recently, I debated bringing in my water bottle before remembering there was a water fountain inside. I started thinking about the person who designed the fountain itself, about the mechanics of the water arcing upward at exactly the right angle, about the pressure required to make it work, and the decision to replace the old metal push button by the spout with a broad bar easier to press. Someone had to solve those problems so the rest of us could take a drink without giving it a second thought.

For a moment, I felt an unexpected flash of pride in humanity. We are so clever, even in the small and seemingly silly things that disappear into the scenery of our daily lives. There is so much ingenuity around us that becomes invisible through repetition, folded so neatly into function that we stop recognizing it for what it is. We think of art as something framed on a wall or displayed on a stage, but I wonder how much beauty we miss simply because it arrives disguised as utility.

I notice this most naturally in words. Writing is my own particular lane, so I am always alert to those moments when something transcends its intended purpose and becomes something more. It might be an unexpectedly powerful sentence tucked into a press release, left unstripped of its force despite every institutional instinct to sand it down. It might be a reflection buried in the middle of a LinkedIn post, where craft feels as though it should go to die under the weight of professional aspiration and self-congratulation, yet somehow survives. Even there, amid the hustle and performance, I find flashes of artistry as people reach for language that might help others understand.

I have had to think differently about my own writing as well. Some weeks, writing feels light. Other weeks, it feels more like schlepping marble to the workshop, carrying something heavy without any immediate evidence of what it might eventually become. Art is not only the finished sculpture or even the first glimpse of its shape. It is also the long, ordinary effort of moving the raw material into place.

Lately, I have found myself noticing another form of creation that I appreciate just as much: whimsy. There is a car parked along one of my regular downtown walking routes with a sticker of a rhino and the words, "Save the chubby unicorn." It makes me smile every time I pass it. A stranger decided the world needed that small absurdity, and now, without ever knowing it, they have made my day better on multiple occasions. There is something deeply human about that kind of offering, about choosing to leave behind not information or instruction, but joy.

I suppose I am the antithesis of millennial gray. I want to remain steadily bemused, ready for a chuckle to bubble up, willing to be interrupted by delight. It feels increasingly important to preserve that instinct, especially when so much of adult life encourages efficiency over wonder and cynicism over tenderness. To notice whimsy, to recognize craftsmanship, to pause long enough to appreciate the cleverness or care embedded in ordinary things, feels less and less like a personality quirk and more like a philosophy.

One of my favorite pictures in my office is a version of "The Vinegar Tasters," an allegorical Chinese painting depicting Lao Tzu, Confucius, and Buddha tasting from the same vat of vinegar. One scowls, one squints, and one smiles, each reaction reflecting a different understanding of life. This is, of course, a simplification, but Lao Tzu's smile has always resonated with me. His philosophy emphasized experiencing life as it is, not endlessly correcting it or trying to escape it, but accepting it fully, with enough openness to recognize the harmony that already exists.

The vinegar is still vinegar. Life remains sour at times, difficult and exhausting and occasionally absurd. Acceptance does not erase that, but it's just a lesson in how there are more flavors available to us. The world gives us plenty of reasons to scowl at the vinegar. I would rather be the person who tastes it carefully, smiles anyway, and keeps looking for the art. And, people constantly leave these traces for one another, with small acts of care and creativity placed in plain sight, waiting to be noticed.

The older I get, the more convinced I am that part of living well is learning how to see them.

Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

Photo credit: Mateus Campos Felipe at Unsplash